The choices we make
by ncis-lady
Summary: "And in this twilight our choices seal our fate." Faith will be shaken, courage will be tested, friendship will be needed in this multi-POV story that follows the dwarves of Thorin's company into battle and beyond. Rated T for dwarven curses, violence and character death. Spoilers for BOFA, obviously.
1. Search of change (Fíli)

Hey everyone. I started writing this a long time ago, but one-shots (that sometimes turned into longer stories) kept getting in the way. Anyway, I always knew I would publish this before BOFA comes out, and now the first trailer has been released and I've written 10 chapters so far, so now is as good a time as any, right?

This is a new one for me. If you know my stories, you know that my other stories are all from Durin POV (Kíli and Fíli, mostly, with one one-shot from Thorin's POV). But I always wanted to challenge myself and write about the other dwarves as well, because I absolutely love the way PJ managed to portray them all with their individual personalities, and that's where this story comes in. It's about the Battle of Five Armies, and while it'll still contain lots of Fíli and Kíli moments you'll also find Dwalin, Balin, Ori, Bofur and Glóin. And Thorin of course. If you read this story and feel like they are out of character, please let me know!

Plus, you'll find that I added lyrics at the end of each (sub-)chapter. Please not that most of the time it's really just the quoted lyrics that fit the story, so don't get confused in case you listen to one of the songs (listen to them, they're great!). But let me assure you that I like all of the songs I use here, so that gives you some info on my taste in music I guess LOL

You should also know that I always try to make my individual fanfics fit each other. So since my first fic was a Kiliel fic, you'll find hints of Kiliel in here, too. (But it will definitely not be that important to the story.)

Last but not least, here's to the warnings:

Spoilers for BOFA, some dwarven curses, violence and character death. In other words, the usual BOFA fic. ;)

And now let's start with a bit of Fíli being his awesome self! :)

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**The choices we make**

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"I wish it need not have happened in my time," said Frodo.  
"So do I," said Gandalf, "and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."

― J.R.R. Tolkien, _The Fellowship of the Ring_

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**1: Search of change**

Days had passed since Fíli, Kíli, Bofur and Óin had reached the Lonely Mountain and met the rest of the company again. They had arrived worn out and tired after Smaug's destruction of Lake-Town followed by the long journey across the lake to the mountain. But they had made it, and at first that had been all that mattered.

But the initial happiness had vanished now, for the elves of Mirkwood and the men of Dale had come to the reclaimed mountain and, represented by Bard, ordered Thorin to share his part of the treasure with them. The proud king refused, and suddenly the situation was tense between the dwarves inside the mountain and the elves and men at the foot of it.

_Will you have peace or war? –I will have war!_

The words echoed in Fíli's ears as he and Kíli followed their uncle back into the mountain after their meeting with Bard, the former bargeman and newly appointed Master of Dale. They sent shivers down his spine, and for the first time since he'd known his uncle he had a pit in his stomach when he looked at him. The rest of the company looked at Thorin expectantly as he approached.

"These greedy humans! I will not give them anything!" yelled Thorin. "They may besiege us all they want, but we are made of stone and will not give in to their impudent claims! And if those blasted elves wish to keep them company, so be it. I will not bow to skinny pointy-eared woodland walkers!"

The other dwarves didn't dare say anything at his outburst. They just stood there and listened to Thorin's rage, and most of them even nodded slightly in agreement. Only a few spoke quietly to each other, and of course it was Balin who took a step forward when his black-haired leader shook his fist in anger at the invisible enemy outside the mountain halls.

"Thorin," he said, "autumn and winter are before us. We will not last that long."

"Neither will they," replied Thorin with a grim expression on his face. "Cold and hunger will befall them outside just the same. And Dáin will be here soon. If these fools think they can wrongfully take what isn't theirs, they're mistaken!"

"They will not give in that easily," muttered Balin, and his white beard vibrated as he shook his head as if to underline his words.

"Then they'll have to fight!" Thorin replied sharply.

"That's stupid!"

All heads turned at these words, because it hadn't been Balin who said them.

Fíli stepped forward, his shoulders squared and his head held high even under Thorin's furious gaze. For a split second it looked like Kíli would hold his brother back, but then let him go, his dark eyes never leaving the blonde dwarf.

"What did you say?" Thorin hissed with narrowed eyes.

"You're risking open war just for a tiny fraction of the treasure. That's stupid."

Fíli didn't lower his gaze, nor did he step back, when his uncle approached him with only a few long strides. He could see the older one clenching his fists and pressing his lips to a thin line, but he didn't care. He knew Thorin was furious, and some part of him urged him to apologise and leave it be, but all of a sudden there was another voice within. One that had whispered to him before, though rather seldom, during dark nights and nightmares of watching a young, raven-haired dwarf die in his own blood; one that had spoken to him in the otherwise dreamless state of unconsciousness after Smaug had destroyed the lives of nameless people – the voice had been there all along, and had now decided to come forth. It drowned out the other voice; the one that told Fíli of the love and respect and loyalty he held for the dwarf who had so desperately tried to replace the father he'd lost too soon, the one that begged him to understand his uncle's motives and let it be.

_But I cannot let this rest. Not this time._

"You have more gold than you could ever count, and yet you refuse to give these poor people their fair share! Their town was destroyed because you angered Smaug, their people died because you thought you could take on that dragon all by yourself! Don't tell me they don't deserve some compensation for that."

Fíli didn't need to turn around to see his brother nod slightly in support.

Thorin was standing so close to his nephew that the young one could see the fire blazing in his hardened, strikingly darkened eyes.

"I do not owe them anything. The gold is mine, as is this mountain, and I will not let them take away any of it."

He spoke quietly, but every word seemed to echo even louder in the grand halls of the mountain, and years later Ori would say that Thorin grew larger as he stood before Fíli, although that might have been his imagination.

"You! You, it's always just _you_!" Fíli could feel himself shaking with rage, a feeling stronger than he had ever experienced before - stronger than his despair after his father's death, stronger than his fear when Kíli had been shot, stronger even than his fury when Thorin had forced him to choose between brother and uncle and ripped his heart to shreds in the process. He heard himself speak as if from far away when emotions buried deep inside boiled up to the surface. "It was your greed that brought death upon them, and it will be your greed that'll bring death onto all of us! Why can't you just once think of others instead of only yourself? Go outside and agree to negotiate, let them have their share and we can get this over with once and for all, instead of ruining us all with your selfishness!"

"Selfishness? I gave up everything I had for this mountain." Thorin's voice became dangerously cold. "I've sacrificed so much, I've lost everything dear to me and given everything I ever had, so don't you _dare_ call me selfish."

"Everything dear to you, huh?" repeated Fíli quietly, his blue eyes boring into his uncle as he took a step backwards. "At least you made your priorities clear."

"Fíli...", he heard his brother mumble behind his back, and he turned his head to face the younger one.

"No, Kee. Don't even try." He could see a shadow of hurt cross Kíli's face, but it was gone with the blink of an eye, and for the first time in his life, Fíli didn't even care. He took another step backwards, away from Thorin, who was watching him intently with a kind of calmness upon him that resembled a volcano. A volcano was always the quietest before the outburst, and everyone who took a closer look at Thorin knew that he was near exploding.

"All your talk about honour and loyalty was only a lie, now, wasn't it?" he spit out bitterly as he stood between his brother and his uncle. "Was it loyalty that made you leave Kíli – your own blood – behind to die? It was Thranduil's son who saved us from the orcs in Dale! It was Thranduil's guard who saved Kíli's life!" He could see Kíli blanch at his words, and Thorin narrowed his eyes. "Was it honour that made you deny help to the people of Lake-town? I sure think not!"

"Don't you dare lecture me about honour and loyalty!" bellowed Thorin. "You know nothing of this world!"

"I know enough to think that maybe you're not the person I thought you were! A true king would not risk war for such a matter, and if you can't see that, then I begin to question the oath I swore at the beginning of this journey."

_I would still hold true to that oath. But I need to know that I'm doing the right thing._

The silence was like thunder when seconds passed like eternity in the mountain hall. Fíli was trembling where he stood, and his own words echoed in his ears. His mind was blank and he didn't know where the words had come from, how long they had been waiting to be spoken, or whether he meant them at all. They contradicted everything he'd ever believed him, and still they seemed so true when he said them aloud.

"Go."

Thorin's single word pierced the silence like a sword went through a leaf, sharp and swift and cold.

"Go!" he yelled when Fíli didn't budge. "Out of my sight, now!"

The blonde youth held his gaze for a few more seconds, then he turned around. He walked slowly towards the door, and with each heavy step he took he felt like he was walking further away from what he once had cherished beyond anything else.

"Go after your brother," he heard Thorin say, "and knock some sense into him!"

"I think he's right," Kíli answered, and Fíli turned around once more and smiled despite everything. Loyalty wasn't dead, even if some had already set the pyre for it. It was there, and would remain through it all. "Maybe we ought to meet Bard and..."

"You will do no such thing!"

"Uncle..."

"I'm not talking to you as your uncle, I'm talking to you as your king!"

It was like a lion roaring, and the words sent shivers down Fíli's spine as he felt the cold door press into his back. Something broke apart inside of him in that moment, yet what it was he couldn't quite say then, but he knew that Kíli had felt it, too, even though the younger one didn't respond immediately to his uncle's words.

"As you wish," Kíli said finally. Fíli watched as he turned on the spot, hands clenched to fists and his face rigid as he walked slowly towards the door. Side by side the brothers stepped over the threshold and left the group behind. Behind them they could hear something shatter, and the noise shook the stone walls and Fílis heart.

* * *

Fíli didn't sleep that night. He hadn't spoken to his uncle for the rest of the day, and a turmoil of emotions made it impossible for him to drift into sleep. He and Kíli were lying in one corner of the hall, and around him dwarves were snoring and now and again turning in their sleep. Only Bombur was absent, having been ordered to keep watch for the night. Bombur, and of course Thorin. His uncle hadn't gone to sleep in the hall, and Fíli had no idea where he was and whether he was maybe just as unable to rest as his nephew.

The young dwarf laid with his eyes open, although he couldn't see anything in the dark. His thoughts were whirling inside his head, voices whispered, images flowed before his eyes, and he wished he could just drown them all out and go back to some other time. A time before dragons, before gold, a time when he still knew what was wrong and what was right.

Suddenly Kíli stirred in his sleep, his legs thrashed out as he mumbled incoherent words with his eyes shut tight and his forehead creased. Immediately Fíli put his hand onto his brother's shoulder like he had done a million times before.

"Shh, Kee, it's alright. It's alright."

But this time, the black-haired youth didn't snap out of his nightmare as quickly as usual, and Fíli frowned when he could feel his brother's shirt wet with sweat. His body was tense as he shifted and turned underneath Fíli's hands.

"No, no... Thorin... so sorry –"

"It's alright, Kee, it's going to be alright," Fíli repeated the words over and over again.

"Home... mother... no, no, no..."

The voice was that of a child, and Fíli found himself strangely reminded of his childhood. Kíli had sounded just like that when he had been a dwarfling who was scared of the monsters under his bed. Fíli had promised him that there was no evil lurking underneath the bed, and eventually little Kíli had gone back to sleep. Fíli wished he could make that promise again, but he knew now that there was indeed evil out there in the world, and that there was a chance that he might not be able to protect his brother from it.

The thought was enough to bring tears to his eyes as he continued to rub Kíli's back, murmuring words of comfort in Khuzdul until, eventually, the younger one drifted into sleep again. It was only then that Fíli remembered that he'd heard another noise, as if someone else was awake in the room, but he couldn't see anything and after all, nothing mattered more than his brother right now.

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_The lines we cross in search of change  
But all they see is treason_

(Rise Against, "Behind closed doors")

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**A/N: I added the bit with "Peace or War" recently, after watching the teaser trailer. **

**So, what do you think? Should I continue? Reviews are very much appreciated!**


	2. Of friendship (Balin)

Thank you all so much for your kind reviews! Now it's Balin's turn, and I'm curious to find out what you think, since Balin's point of view is definitely a new one for me and I'm nit sure if I got the characters right in this one.

The conversation in the beginning is from the book - no copyright infringement intended.

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**2: Of friendship**

The next morning the dwarves were surprised to find Bard again approaching the mountain. The man of Dale asked to speak with Thorin to take up negotiations once more.

"Is there then nothing for which you would yield any of your gold?" he asked, and Balin, who was standing next to Thorin, saw his king's eyes sparkle as he eyed the tall man suspiciously.

"Nothing that you or your friends would have to offer."

"What of the Arkenstone of Thrain?"

Balin inhaled sharply, and he saw Dwalin flinch beside him. Several other dwarves looked equally shocked. Fíli and Kíli stood seemingly emotionless, but maybe Balin just couldn't see them well enough from the distance. The young princes hadn't spoken with their uncle ever since their argument the day before, and Balin began to fear that this time, their differences wouldn't be overcome that quickly.

Right now, though, there was something more important.

"That stone was my father's, and is mine," Thorin spoke with false calmness in his voice. "Why should I purchase my own?"

He couldn't fool his best friend. Balin knew that Thorin was growing angrier with every passing second.

"But how came you by the heirloom of my house?" asked Thorin, brows furrowed over black eyes. "How came you by it?"

His voice was loud and filled with rage, and if Balin hadn't held him by the sleeve his king would probably have attacked the man before him with his bare fists. The white-bearded dwarf held his breath when Bilbo stepped forward.

"I gave it to them!"

Never before had Balin seen such fury in Thorin's eyes. It wasn't the desperate urge for revenge after he'd seen his grandfather die on the battlefield. It was nothing like the overwhelming frustration he'd felt during their time in Thranduil's dungeons, when Thorin had shaken the iron bars of his cell like a berserker, cursing the elven king in all colourful words the Khuzdul language had to offer. It was neither like the blood lust he'd seen in the dark dwarf when Azog had come back from the dead.

Thorin's eyes were black with madness, and Balin shuddered as his friend of old yelled at the hobbit and grabbed him by the shoulders.

"As for you, I will throw you to the rocks!"

_He's going to kill him._

Balin had never been surer about anything, and he knew that he ought to do something when Thorin shook Bilbo and screamed at him, but he couldn't move.

Suddenly Gandalf was there, and it was only when Thorin released the hobbit from his iron grip that Balin let go of the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. But it was not over yet, and Balin watched in horror as Thorin furiously made Bilbo climb down the wall to never cross paths with the dwarves again. He could see the hurt in the hobbit's kind eyes, and in the split second that his gaze locked with Bilbo's he realised that their friend did not deserve this. He had done what he'd deemed right, and who could blame him for trying to change the course of the future? In his long life Balin had learned that it wasn't always the mighty, strong leaders in the world that brought a change for the better. More often, it was the small people who understood more than everything what it really took to turn the tide.

The small people, like Bilbo, their friend.

"Balin! Dwalin! Inside, we need to talk!"

Thorin's harsh voice penetrated the silence that had followed Bilbo's leaving, and after taking a deep breath Balin turned around and followed the betrayed king back into the mountain. He could hear the other dwarves muttering behind his back, and he could only pray that none of them would do something rash in order to set things right. The image of a young blond dwarf climbing over the wall appeared before his eyes, but Balin shook his head and it was gone as quickly as it had come. Fíli wouldn't do such a thing. He might have been angry with Thorin, and he might have said some harsh words, but he wouldn't openly betray his uncle.

_How can you be so sure about that?_

But Balin forbade himself to think further about that matter.

Back inside the mountain Thorin began to pace, swearing under his breath, ignoring his two oldest companions until Balin squared his shoulders and stepped into his king's path.

"And what do you suggest we do now?"

He thought he knew the answer already, so it didn't surprise him when Thorin looked grim-facedly at him and Dwalin.

"Dáin will be here soon. I can wait that long. And once he gets here, we will take back what's rightfully ours."

Balin closed his eyes for a second, inwardly cursing the stubbornness of the Durin line.

"And how will you do that? Will you take on an entire army of elves and men -"

"Fishermen! There are no warriors in Dale!"

"- with nought but one small army of dwarves?"

"Dáin's army won't be small, Balin!" There was a maniacal glint in Thorin's eyes as he reached out his muscular arm, and a black raven landed on his hand. "Send word to Dáin, Roäc, he will have to hurry up. War is upon us, and I need him!"

The raven tilted its head at the dwarf, then flew off almost soundlessly. Balin followed it with his eyes, and he wondered how close Dáin was to Erebor. He almost wished for him to be held up by the men at the mountainside. But then again he knew Thorin's cousin. He was as strong as the iron in his hills, and he would not turn back without a fight.

_Mahal forbid he will fight his way through to us._

"I can't believe we're sitting here like rabbits in their holes," grumbled Dwalin, absent-mindedly testing the blade of his axe with his fingertips. "I say we get it over with now."

Balin stared as his brother with wide eyes. It wasn't often that he realised how different they were, but in this moment he was more aware of it than ever. They had both fought in many battles, but Dwalin had always been quicker to grab an axe or a sword. While Balin had long known that he was destined to be the king's counsellor, his younger brother was a warrior, and he needed the fight.

_Someday your blood lust will be the death of you. – It'll be the death of many foes before it kills me._

It was a painful memory of a conversation long past, and Balin tried to push it aside as he looked at the bald, tattooed dwarf in front of him whom he had known for so long. He shook his head.

"We wouldn't stand a chance. Thirteen dwarves against their army, that's madness. Most of us aren't even warriors. And anyway, I still hope that we can deal with this without bloodshed."

Dwalin grunted, a shadow of frustration crossing his face, but he nodded slightly. He was eager for a fight, but he was neither stupid nor did he have a death-wish. Balin turned now to Thorin, and he knew that the most difficult part was still ahead.

The black-haired dwarf eyed him sharply, and when Balin opened his mouth to speak he held up his hand, making him stop before he could even start to talk.

"No, Balin, I know what you want to say. But there is no other way. We were betrayed, we were robbed, and we need to set things right."

"And you think you can do that by starting a war?" Balin asked incredulously, looking intently at the one whom he'd once sworn unconditional allegiance to. Thorin's face was kind of worn out, like he had seen it in old warriors, and adding to the glinting madness in his eyes, there was also a haunted look in them that Balin had never seen before.

"It's not me who started this!" yelled Thorin, and after the long quietness his voice seemed to be even louder than usual. "They _asked_ for this, and now they have to deal with our answer!"

"They did not ask for _war_. They asked for justice."

Balin tried his best to keep his voice calm, when on the inside he'd like to scream and shake Thorin until he was thinking sober again.

"Justice?" Thorin spit out the word as if it was a disgusting piece of food. "I've never known justice, so why should I give them any?" Dwalin took a step forward, but the dwarven leader shot him a warning look that made even the seasoned warrior stop dead in his tracks. "I've lost everything while they stood by and did nothing! I lost my family, my home, and I've risked everything to get this far. I will not let them take it away from me again!"

"Oh for Mahal's sake, Thorin, will you not see it?"

Balin's heart was hammering in his chest as he stood before his king, hands shaking as he took deep breaths. He forced himself to calm down, and it surprised him how difficult it actually was. He wasn't usually the one to yell, least of all at Thorin. But there was something in his words that had hit him hard. For a split second he could see Fíli, less than a day ago, hurt written all over his young face as he stepped away from his uncle.

"You still have a family. And they need you. You owe it to them to be sensible about this."

"Aye, I know." A sparkle of light flickered in Thorin's eyes, making them look bright and clear once more, but it was gone too quickly. "What good is it if my own family doesn't have my back?"

"Doesn't have your back?" Balin echoed, the words hurting him more than he'd ever thought words could. "Family doesn't end with blood, lad. We are _all_ your family, and we would die for you in a second. Your nephews most of all."

He could hear Dwalin inhale sharply beside him, and Thorin narrowed his eyes at the older dwarf.

"My nephews made their point quite clear yesterday."

"They are worried, Thorin!" Balin exclaimed, throwing his hands up in frustration. "They know you better than anyone else, they admire you, but they are also grown dwarves with a mind of their own and they can see where your madness is leading to!"

"I'm doing this – all of this – for them! I wish for them to settle down, have a home, and lead the lives they were meant to have. Is that so wrong?"

"Of course it isn't. But you're going about it the wrong way, and you will get lost if you don't turn around now."

"You sound like Gandalf!"

Dwalin chuckled, and Balin smirked.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Thorin huffed, but he looked less defensive than before, and Balin hoped that he was finally getting through to his friend.

"You once told me that you're not like your grandfather. Prove it. Make the right decisions. You're my king, and I will follow you to whatever end, but I will not stand by and watch you succumb to your forefathers' madness."

The king seemed to ponder his old friend's words for a while, and Balin was wise enough to not speak further. Already he had said much more than he usually did. Now it was up to Thorin to make the best of it.

"Leave me alone for a while, will you?" he asked eventually. "I need to think things through. If only this Shire-rat hadn't found the sto-"

The walls still vibrated when Thorin held his burning cheek.

"His name is Bilbo, and he saved your life. More than once. You ought not to forsake so quickly those who actually care about you."

Thorin stood staring at the one who'd slapped him, and Balin thought that he'd never been prouder of his little brother. The bald dwarf eyed his hand as if he could not believe what he'd done, then looked cautiously at Thorin.

The king stared at his old brother in arms, and for a second his eyes shone with such fury that Dwalin took a step backwards. Thorin's hands were shaking as he approached the tattooed dwarf, one grabbing the hilt of his sword, and Balin held his breath. Cold fear took hold of him, and the feeling was one he never would have associated with his friend. The fear scared him even more than the sword in Thorin's hand.

_Treason. He attacked the king. Oh Mahal, please make this alright._

Thorin stood before Dwalin, and his black eyes bore themselves into his friend, who didn't avert his eyes, but held his steady gaze. Silence was around them, and Balin could see the rise and fall of his brother's chest. The white-haired dwarf watched as his younger brother carefully reached out his hand, and then touched Thorin's arm slightly, his fingertips barely grazing the leather of Thorin's cloak, as if he was reaching out to a squirrel.

And all of a sudden, something in the king's eyes changed. The black turned into blue, and they looked down at his sword hand still maintaining the strong hold of the sword hilt, and for a second Balin thought he could see fear in his friend's eyes. The dwarven leader shivered, as if he only then understood what he had almost done, and then he looked up at Dwalin.

"Well spoken. Since when are you the wise one?"

The corners of Dwalin's mouth twitched.

"I'm not. But I'm wise enough to know that friendship isn't always about standing behind someone. Sometimes it's about standing up to them."

Thorin nodded thoughtfully. Balin patted his brother on the shoulder, which the younger one acknowledged with a weak smile.

"We'll leave you alone for now," said Balin, looking intently at his friend. Blue eyes met his gaze, and there was no madness in them. He would have to trust his king that he'd keep it that way. "Let us know when you've made up your mind. I just ask you to –"

"I know. I will talk to them, Balin. I will."

With that promise on his mind Balin left the room, with Dwalin following closely behind, and he felt as if a terrible weight had been lifted off his chest.

They would find a way out of this. If only he knew which way was the right one.

_And if strength is born from heartbreak  
Then mountains I could move  
And if walls could speak I'd pray  
That they would tell me what to do_

(Rise Against, "Drones")

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**A/N: Next one will have Thorin and Kíli ;)**


	3. In darkness (Thorin, Kíli)

Thank you all so much for your review! Keep them coming! ;)

This is a shorter chapter, but it's Thorin and Kíli and it's one of my favourites (so far) - please let me know what you think!

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**3: In darkness **

But Thorin didn't talk to anyone for another day. There was too much on his mind after everything that had happened, and he felt like he needed some time alone for a while. So he went where he knew no one would come looking for him, the place that still had the stench of the dragon upon it.

Gold didn't smell. But the gigantic vault reeked of its last occupant, of fire and smoke and death.

Thorin didn't care. He sat and stared at the treasure laid out before him, a light irradiated from it with such intensity that he didn't even need a torch to see the gold up to the very last coin, the tiniest jewel, the smallest piece of garment. Just one part of it was missing, and still the king's heart yearned more for it than for anything else.

The Arkenstone. The symbol of everything he'd ever dreamed of. The only jewel he'd ever really cared about. And hadn't he made it quite clear to the burglar that he needed this stone? Hadn't they had a deal?

Thorin laughed bitterly, and the sound echoed within the halls, going back and forth, quieter and quieter until silence filled the vault once more. Bilbo had betrayed him. Bilbo, the hobbit, of all people had fooled him and bonded with the enemy.

_May we never meet again._

Surely it was better if he and Bilbo never crossed paths again, for the dark-haired dwarf knew that he wouldn't be able to control himself if Bilbo was to appear inside the mountain right now. He felt sick just thinking of the little one, his hands were shaking when he recalled the moment he'd realised that he'd been betrayed by the one he'd thought he could trust with everything.

Bilbo had saved his life, and then put a sword through his back. He had trusted the hobbit, and he'd been sold to his most hated enemies in return. He could see the elven king smirking at him, relishing in his state of weakness. He could see the bowman's smug face, and the anger in his own kin's eyes.

Oh, how wrong they all were! He would take what's his, he would prove himself as the rightful heir to the throne in Erebor, the gold would be his and his only, and –

Suddenly he started to shake. This wasn't his voice in his mind, not his thoughts... a madman inside, greedy and hungry for power and gold. His chest burned as he watched the treasure laid out before him, his heart beat so fast it hurt. He understood, in that moment, what gold sickness meant. It wasn't just in his head. It was actually _painful_. It was a strange kind of hurt, a mixture of fire in his veins and ice paralysing his limbs, of burning desire and cold fear.

He had attacked Dwalin. He had almost killed his best friend who had loyally stood by his side through all his life. The realisation made him physically sick, and it mingled with the pain of the gold sickness seeping in his blood. He buried his face in his hands in a desperate attempt to shut out the voices of his friends, of his nephews, to forget the looks on their faces, but they kept appearing before his mind's eye. Sadness, fear, disappointment – he could see it all on their faces and hear it in the things they said as their voices found the way through the haze.

"What am I supposed to do?" he whispered quietly. "Mahal, help me."

But the gold didn't answer.

_Somewhere in this darkness  
There's a light that I can't find  
Maybe it's too far away  
Or maybe I'm just blind_

(Three Doors Down, "When I'm gone")

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The walls were closing in on him, Kíli was sure of it. He knew it was a ridiculous thought, but it pretty much felt like it. He was sick of these rooms, he longed for air, he felt like he couldn't breathe inside the mountain. He hadn't slept properly for days, after waking up from indecipherable dreams more than once a night with Fíli rubbing his back and refusing to tell whether or not he had said anything in his sleep.

It wasn't like he'd imagined his time in Erebor. When they'd set out for the quest to reclaim the lost homeland, he'd expected it to be difficult, dangerous, a little mad even. But he'd always been sure that it would be worth it in the end, and now that he was locked inside the stone walls, besieged by an army of elves and men, he doubted his confident thoughts, and what was even worse, he doubted his uncle.

_He is going mad, and there's nothing I can do._

Kíli sat down on the edge of the bed which was located in one corner of the room he now shared with Fíli. He didn't know where his brother was. He was distant these days, had been ever since the argument with Thorin. He knew the older one was hurting, he had seen the fire and anger in his uncle's eyes for himself, had heard it in his voice, and he had felt like he had been punched in the face with Thorin's words.

He needed to talk to someone, but the only one he'd confide in was not here. He buried his face in his hands for a moment, taking deep breaths while trying to clear his mind. It didn't work. Images kept whirling inside his head, of his uncle and his brother, of a dragon and a burning city, of orcs and arrows and elves.

Tauriel. It felt like a lifetime since they'd parted, and the way he missed her scared him. It was like a part of him was missing, a constant throbbing in his chest reminding him of their farewell in Laketown. Subconsciously he put his right hand onto his leg. The wound was closed, the bandage gone, but he thought that he could still feel it. He remembered Bilbo saying that some wounds had a way of staying with you forever, though invisible they may be. Kíli pressed his hand onto the spot where the arrow had struck him, and a dull pain found its way to his head and made him groan involuntarily.

"Are you alright?"

He flinched at the voice, but smiled when his eyes found Fíli standing in the doorway. The blonde came over to him and gave him a scrutinising look.

"I'm fine, Fee, really," Kíli said reassuringly, but knew immediately that his brother wasn't so easily deceived. Fíli had always been like that, as long as Kíli could remember his older brother had made sure he was okay no matter how the younger tried to tell him he was fine.

Fíli kneeled down in front of his brother and put his hand onto Kíli's.

"It still hurts sometimes, doesn't it?" asked Fíli quietly, and the dark-haired dwarf knew that his brother wouldn't accept anything but the truth.

"Aye, it does," he sighed, "but it's not so bad, really. It's just from time to time that it starts throbbing again, as if it didn't want me to forget Tau... anything," he corrected himself hastily. If Fíli had noticed his slip of tongue, he did a good job of ignoring it, and Kíli was more than grateful for it.

_It's better to have them all believe that I don't care. Though Fíli might know the truth after all._

"Wounds like these need time to heal," Fíli said softly, and it made Kíli wonder whether his brother was only talking of physical wounds.

"What if some never heal?" he heard himself speak. "What if, after everything, the scars remain with us?"

Fíli's his blue eyes met Kíli's as he looked sternly at him.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, little brother, don't you think?"

He winked at him, but Kíli could see how forced his smile was. They hadn't had much to laugh about lately, and everything they'd gone through was beginning to take its toll on them.

Fíli got up from his kneeling position and started to pace the room. Kíli watched him for a while, probably for the first time in his life at a loss for words.

"If Thorin just wasn't so damned stubborn!" mumbled Fíli under his breath. "This is madness, we have war waiting for us outside, and all over this bloody stone!" With a stifled cry he slammed his fist into the wall, and the curses that followed as he held his hurting hand would have given him a lecture on manners from their mother, that much Kíli knew for sure. He leapt to his feet and approached Fíli, carefully laying a hand onto his shoulder, and the older one froze.

"War isn't inevitable," said Kíli, trying to sound as confident as possible. "Thorin may still see sense, and we might still find a way to get out of this without bloodshed."

"Dáin is close," growled Fíli, massaging his hand and staring furiously at the wall, as if the stone was to blame for everything. And maybe it was, Kíli thought. If it wasn't for these halls and the treasure they protected, it would never have come to this.

_No dragon, no adventure, no siege, no fight. _

"Once he gets here, our uncle will start a fight," Fíli went on, his voice shaking as he spoke. "There'll be no turning back, and even if we do win, what good will it be? A kingdom built on blood will never last."

There was a kind of bitterness in his voice that frightened Kíli. His big brother was supposed to be the confident one, the strong one, the leader. But now he looked utterly defeated as he stared at the door as if he expected an army to burst through it any second.

In that moment a horn sounded in the distance, and both brothers looked up in alarm. Someone was calling for a meeting, and these days that couldn't mean anything good. Most probably Dáin had announced his arrival, and Kíli feared what this might mean for the situation inside and outside the gates.

"Better get going," said Fíli gravely. "Today is not the right time to keep Thorin waiting."

The brothers left the room side by side, and for the blink of an eye it occurred to Kíli that he might never set foot in it again. He forbade himself to delve deeper into these thoughts, though, but instead ignored the pit in his stomach as he followed his brother to the grand hall of the mountain.

_On this bed I lay  
Losing everything  
I can see my life passing me by  
Was it all too much  
Or just not enough  
Wake me up, I'm living a nightmare_

(Three Days Grace, "Time of dying")

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**A/N: (My version of) Kíli's and Tauriel's farewell in Laketown is told in ch. 6 of "Starlit Skies". ;)**


	4. Decisions (Bofur)

Thank you all so much for your reviews, they really mean a lot to me! This chapter is about Bofur.

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**4: Decisions **

The silence was unnerving. Bofur shifted where he was standing and watched his companions. They had all gathered in the great hall when the horn called for them, and now they were waiting for news from beyond the mountain walls. Some, like Dwalin or Dori, looked grim, Ori wore a frightened expression, and others seemed to try to not show how uneasy they actually felt.

Bofur was worried. When he'd set out for the quest to reclaim Erebor, it had been an adventure, a chance to see the world outside Ered Luin, an opportunity for the toymaker to help his friends and get some gold on top. Sure, there had been the tale of the dragon, but somehow even that had never dampened his spirits.

But now they were on the brink of war. Fighting a monstrous, evil dragon was one thing – fighting elves and men was a totally different matter, and Bofur didn't like the idea at all.

He thought of Bard and his children, of how they had helped them – Kíli, most of all – and of how Bard had killed Smaug and had been given the ruins of a house in return.

Somewhere in the back of his mind Bofur heard a voice that told him that Thorin was wrong. He had ignored it before, the call of the gold drowning out all other noises, but it had grown louder and louder throughout the days. He saw Bilbo's frightened eyes, he saw the hurt on Fíli's face, he saw it all before his inner eye and he realised that the treasure beneath the mountain would divide them. They might have won the gold, but the mountain would claim its price in return. Loyalty and honour and friendship and trust – was that the price they had paid for the jewels and gems and gold?

The huge door suddenly swung open, and Thorin entered the hall, followed closely by Balin. There was something about the way Thorin was moving that made Bofur hold his breath. His leader had always had this majestic aura around him, even after a long day out in the open, soaked through and tired. Seeing him in the halls of Erebor, wearing fine clothes and clean boots, made not only Bofur gasp in awe.

His king. Only now Bofur knew what this meant.

Thorin halted in the middle of the large room and let his gaze wander across the group. It seemed to the toymaker that he looked at his nephews a little longer, but if he did, then they clearly chose to ignore it.

"News have reached us from outside the wall," said Thorin loudly, and Bofur involuntarily shivered. The next words would decide their fate, he understood in that moment.

"Of the good kind, or the bad?" asked Glóin, and Bofur thought that he was probably not the only one holding his breath. He could see Balin sigh next to Thorin, and he felt a knot tying in his stomach.

"The good news is that Dáin has arrived," answered Thorin, yet his tone boded ill. "Bad news is that an army of orcs has approached as well. Dáin's army is fighting them as we speak, and apparently the elves and men have decided to fight on their side."

He let the words sink in, and Bofur took a deep breath. Orcs. Just the thought of these evil creatures sent shivers down his spine. Too clearly he remembered their numerous encounters with them, he had witnessed their cruelty, had felt the mixture of fear and hatred running through his veins when Azog had almost defeated Thorin.

Around him he could hear whispering voices, but eventually they died down. Dwalin stepped forward and looked intently at Thorin.

"And what will your decision be?"

The black-haired dwarf eyed him wearily. Bofur remembered that the two warriors had fought together at Azanulbizar, and he was sure that Dwalin would follow his leader into battle without a second thought should it come to war.

"I will not order you to fight," said Thorin rather quietly, and it was mainly Ori he looked sternly at. The young dwarf looked probably even more frightened than before, but on the other hand his jaw was set as if he wouldn't let that fear take hold of him.

"Óin, I ask you to stay and fulfil your duties as a healer. Roäc has informed me that there are two tents, one of which is run by Dáin's healers as well as a few men of Dale. Take as much as you can with you, and help out there, if you please."

The old healer had listened with his hand on his ear trumpet, and he nodded.

"Agreed."

"I will not order any of you to fight, for I know that I can't ask you to risk your lives yet again. I know that not all of you are warriors," and Bofur felt Thorin's eyes on himself, "and I will not demand anything you cannot give."

"I sense a 'but' coming," mumbled Dori loud enough for everyone to hear, and the ghost of a smile appeared on Thorin's face.

"But as for me, I will not abandon my cousin. I see it as my duty and an act of honour to come to his aid. And I ask you this: Will you follow me - one more time?"

"I'll gladly fight side by side with you once more," stated Dwalin solemnly, and he walked towards Thorin and put a huge hand onto his shoulder. "I'll follow you, my friend."

"Aye," added Balin, "to whatever end."

Bofur watched as Glóin and Dori stepped forward, he heard their voices as if through a mist. His mind was racing while around him his friends were offering their services to their king. He knew what his own decision would be, he had known it all the time. But saying it aloud would leave him no way back. It would be a final decision, and he'd stick to it and see it through.

_I'm bloody scared, Mahal knows I'm just a toymaker, not a warrior. _

But he was sure, deep inside, that he would not abandon his friends. They had been through so much, and now was the time to stay with them until the bitter end.

In that moment Fíli and Kíli left their places in the back of the hall. Something changed in Thorin's eyes as he perceived them. Bofur wondered when he had last spoken to his nephews, or whether he had talked to them at all after their dispute. The two young dwarves exchanged glances as they stood before their uncle, and the elder one remained silent.

"Uncle," began Fíli, but he seemed to be lost for words under Thorin's stern gaze. He was still hurt from his uncle's words, Bofur realised then. The king hadn't apologised yet.

"We will join you in battle," said Kíli, looking straight at Thorin. For a moment Bofur thought that he could see the expression in Thorin's eyes change when his youngest nephew spoke. His blue eyes became soft for a second, with a shadow of worry flickering in them.

_He cares for them still. Otherwise he wouldn't be worried. Why can't he just tell Fíli that?_

But Thorin didn't apologise. He merely nodded his head as if he hadn't expected anything else. His right hand flinched, and it seemed like he wanted to reach out to his nephew and put a hand onto his shoulder, but stalled. The brothers probably hadn't even noticed. They retreated simultaneously and stood beside Dwalin.

Bofur took a deep breath, then slowly walked towards Thorin.

"You can count on me," he said with a clear voice, and found his leader smiling at him.

"Thank you, Bofur."

There was no way back now. He would go into battle, and he'd make the best out of it. He closed his eyes for a moment, and the memory of a song came to his mind. He began to hum, more to himself at first, but he got louder and eventually started to sing along as he approached the other dwarves. If he could only focus on the melody he might be able to not think of what was about to come.

_Fill up yer glass, be merry tonight_

_Don't think of tomorrow, forget 'bout the fight_

_Dance with a lass till yer feet are sore_

_Drink yer ale and maybe some more_

_Be merry tonight, don't worry me lad_

_There's a place and a time for being sad_

_But not today, be merry tonight_

_Don't think of tomorrow, forget 'bout the fight_

He hushed as he felt Dwalin's eyes on him.

"Are you ever _not _cheerful?" asked the bald dwarf grumpily, as if he was personally offended by the fact that a dwarf could indeed not be grim and serious at times. Bofur shrugged. He could have told Dwalin that he needed to sing in order to keep his fear at bay. He could have said that the singing calmed him down. He could have replied with a witty remark and made everyone else laugh.

But just this time, Bofur remained silent.

_I give it all, now there's a reason why I sing,  
So give it all, 'cause it's these reasons that belong to me _

(Rise Against, "Give it all")

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**A/N: What do you think of Bofur's song? ;)**

**Next one will have Dwalin and Ori :)**


	5. Watching over you (Dwalin, Ori)

I'm glad you liked Bofur's chapter! This one will have Dwalin and Ori. I really love them both, although they couldn't be any more different I guess.

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**5: Watching over you **

Until twilight. That was the time Thorin had given them to prepare for battle, and Dwalin would use it wisely. It wasn't the first time for him, after all.

The tattooed dwarf watched his companions as they assembled in the great vault. Most were still wearing the same clothes they'd worn throughout the journey, but this would soon change. There was a seemingly endless supply of armour found in the vault, made of the finest materials, shining even in the otherwise dark hall. The dwarves of Erebor had made beautiful pieces of armoury back in the days, armour stronger than the rocks around them, lighter than the feathers of the mighty eagles beyond the mountains. Thorin had ordered them to put on the best armour they could find, and choose the deadliest weapons the vault had to offer, and the dwarves had happily obliged.

Dwalin hadn't needed much time. He was experienced enough to tell good from perfect, strong from impenetrable. So he lent a hand here and there, helping Bombur with his vambraces and Nori with the breastplates. His hands worked instinctively, and even while he spoke to his comrades his mind was far away.

Another battle. Another fight. Part of him was looking forward to it. It was the part of him that sometimes scared him, the part that made his heart beat faster at the prospect of a fight. He was a warrior, always had been, having been raised to defend his kin by axe and sword ever since he was old enough to hold a weapon. He had gone through the hard training lessons, had endured exhaustion and defeat, and had learned to embrace the feeling of adrenaline pumping through his veins and of victory at last. And as long as he could remember, Thorin had been at his side.

He had often wondered which fight would be their last.

They had fought side by side at Azanulbizar, and the memory of that disastrous battle was enough to make even the seasoned warrior choke back the upcoming tears. There had been nothing victorious about it then. They had won the battle, but had lost so much that in the aftermath of the battle Dwalin had often asked himself whether it had been worth the sacrifice.

_Father would say it was worth it. But he's not the one who had to live on after seeing so much death._

For that was the other part of Dwalin. It was the part that remembered the screams of agony of the wounded, the cries of fear of the dying, and the vacant eyes of the dead. He had been in many fights, but that battle stood out from all the rest, and somehow he'd always thought that it couldn't get worse than this.

Now he wasn't so sure, and for a split second he felt worry threatening to overcome him. He shook his head as if he could thus get rid of these thoughts. He would not worry. He would be strong, a leader for the less experienced, and he would get his friends through this. And he would fight alongside Thorin once more, and they would be victorious.

His gaze fell onto Bofur and Bifur, the two cousins helping each other with their armour. They talked quietly in Khuzdul, and Dwalin couldn't help but smile as he saw Bifur squeezing his cousin's shoulder when the younger one eyed his new axe in doubt. He already regretted his rather harsh words to Bofur earlier. He could see that Bofur felt uncomfortable about what was about to come, and who could hold it against him? Some dwarves – him and Balin, and Dori, and of course Kíli and Fíli – had been raised as warriors. They were born to do this, and Mahal be his witness, they were a little scared nonetheless, no matter how hard they all tried to hide it. And he knew from experience that a spark of fear was needed in order to not feel unbeatable, a trait that was usually the main reason why the young ones were the first to die in battle.

But some of their group didn't have that sort of experience, and still they hadn't hesitated to follow their brothers in arms. Dwalin would make sure that they weren't punished cruelly for their loyalty.

That's why he kept going from one dwarf to another, adjusting chainmail and handing out weapons, always trying not to wonder whose faces he wouldn't see again once the battle was over.

_Hope and pray that you'll never need me,  
But rest assured I will not let you down.  
I'll walk beside you but you may not see me,  
The strongest among you may not wear a crown._

(Three Doors Down, "Citizen/soldier")

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The battle was close. It was strange to see how these news changed the dwarves, even before the real battle had begun. In the prelude of the fight they no longer stood together as they had done right after Thorin had informed them about his decision, but instead were gathered in groups as if they knew that this might be the last time they'd have with their families.

It wasn't right to think like that, for it sounded way too pessimistic – and if you didn't believe in victory, why even fight at all? – but Ori thought that if he had just a few more hours to live, he wouldn't spend them with anyone but his brothers. Even though one of his brothers was clearly acting like a jerk right now.

"Take off that armour, _now_!" Dori repeated for what seemed like the thousandth time. "You will not go out there, I forbid you to go out there!"

"You cannot order me to stay!" Ori answered stubbornly, and he saw his big brother's face redden with anger.

The argument had started shortly after Thorin's call for arms. All dwarves had put on their armour and fetched their weapons, but there was none for Ori. He was of lighter built than the older dwarves, and it was with growing frustration that he'd searched the piles of old garment to find something to fit him. There Dori had found him, and the elder one had been furious to find his little brother even contemplating to join the fight. Their heated argument had been going on ever since, and the other dwarves had grown tired of listening and had instead concentrated on matters more important to them. From the corner of his eyes Ori could see Glóin and Óin, and in that moment the red-haired dwarf passed something silver to the old healer. Ori could only guess, but it had looked pretty much like the photographs of his wife and son that Glóin used to carry around day and night. There was something in that small gesture that made Ori choke.

_We might not make it home tonight._

"Nori, for Durin's sake, would you say something?" yelled Dori, and their brother flinched.

"I can fight!" protested Ori, though he knew quite well that it wasn't entirely true. He'd never had the training his brother had had, or Fíli and Kíli, and his only battle experience he'd gotten on the road to Erebor. It probably didn't even count as proper experience, he thought, seeing that his weapon of choice was still his slingshot – not to mention that he'd shaken like a leaf when he'd shot his first goblin with it before Dwalin had thrown him his war hammer. He'd been frightened that day.

Today, with the prospect of battle and bloodthirsty orcs before him, he was downright terrified.

But the only thing he feared more than that battle was watching his brothers go and not knowing whether they'd return.

"I can fight!" he repeated stubbornly, and he grabbed his new axe tightly to underline his words.

Dori simply raised an eyebrow at Nori, and the middle brother sighed before he faced Ori.

"Maybe Dori is right," he said carefully, and before Ori could open his mouth in protest the older one laid his hand onto his shoulder. "You're no warrior, Ori. And Dori and I... how are we supposed to focus on the battle if in our hearts we only worry about you?"

He smiled as he spoke, and his words took Ori by surprise. Dori was the one of the brothers who would always fuss over him, worry about him, look out for him. Nori, on the other hand, was the more reserved of the two, and Ori had often thought that he cared more for the shiny little trophies he could steal that about his brothers.

"Nori...," he said quietly, but suddenly didn't find the words he wanted to say.

"Your skills lie somewhere else," spoke Dori with a determined voice. "Óin will be glad to have you helping him." Ori shuddered involuntarily. Until that moment he'd managed to keep the images of wounded warriors, of agony and blood and death, out of his head.

"Please, Ori. No one will think any less of you if you stay and help in the healers' tent. You can lend a hand wherever it's needed, and they'll need a scribe as well."

"Why would they need –"

But before he could finish his question, he understood. In battle, the wounded and the dead were usually counted, he had heard that from one of the older dwarves who had fought at Azanulbizar.

"Please, brother."

Ori looked at his oldest brother, and he could see the concern and worry in Dori's kind eyes. The grey-haired dwarf had looked out for him all his life, trying his best to replace the father who had left their mother before Ori had even been born.

_Mahal forbid that, in battle, he looks out for me and forgets to look out for himself._

"Just make sure you don't end up in the healers' tent," he mumbled, and to his horror he could feel his eyes starting to sting. "I promise that, if you come back unscathed, I'll never fail to eat up my veggies."

He offered a weak smile, the best he could muster, and to his relief Dori and Nori chuckled.

"I'll take your word for it," replied Nori, just as Dori pulled him into a hug.

"Good lad," said Dori, and it was all he said until Thorin assembled his little army before the gate, but with these two words he'd told Ori everything he needed to know.

The young scribe was still scared. But now his fears were about his brothers and his friends rather than about himself, and he decided that if they could be strong to face the army of orcs, the least he could do was find strength for them in himself. He would wait for them, and then he would write about that day when the first snowflakes set onto the top of the Lonely Mountain. He would remember the old tales of victory, and he would hold on to them and believe that soon the pages of his book would be filled with new stories that he could later on read to his brothers.

_Sad tales about the loss of a son  
And joyful songs about wars we have won  
Stories of brotherhood and powerful gods  
And those of mighty heroes_

_These are the songs of our past and our pride_  
_A link between ours and the ancient times_  
_A memory of honour, the times we were strong_  
_Which never shall be forgotten_

(Vanir, "Sons of the North")

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**A/N: I couldn't really find an appropriate song for Ori... but he's a scribe, and the dwarves are proud of their ancestors, so I thought "Sons of the North" was alright. Especially since it's about Vikings, actually, and the dwarves always seem to me like a mixture of Scots and Vikings LOL**

**We'll meet Ori and Dwalin again, but next chapter will focus on Kíli - I'm sure you don't mind, do you? ;)**


	6. Before the storm (Kíli)

A huge THANK YOU to my loyal reviewers! It's time for some brotherly moments between my favourite dwarves!

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**6: Before the storm**

The silence was tearing at Kíli's nerves. Normally the group of dwarves was rather loud, either because they were joyous or because they were grumpy. One way or the other, their quietness made Kíli feel uneasy. The air was thick with tension. It was almost unbelievable that not far away, just outside the mountain halls, a battle was already raging. People were dying right in that moment, and yet the dwarves were still inside as if they had all the time in the world.

For a brief moment Kíli thought of Tauriel and Legolas – well, mostly of Tauriel, he had to admit. He knew that Thranduil had brought an army of his own, yet Kíli wasn't sure whether the red-haired she-elf would still be counted as one of the Elven Guard. He remembered her words back in Lake-town, her fear that her king wouldn't forgive her disobedience.

He remembered her lips on his when they'd said goodbye.

He tried to think of something else. He _had _to think of something else, he had to focus on what was lying ahead. If not for himself, then at least for his friends.

Everywhere the members of the company were standing in small groups, muttering quietly to each other, but their voices were barely audible over the scraping of metal against stone that came from the whetstone in the corner of the hall.

"What's on your mind, brother?"

Kíli flinched when Fíli suddenly appeared from behind. He took in the image of the elder one, and for a split second he felt again the pit in his stomach. He didn't know where it came from. Maybe it was the fact that his brother –the mischievous little boy who'd taught him to climb trees and steal apples from Óin when he wasn't looking, his partner in crime through the years of their childhood and beyond – looked so different all of a sudden. He was wearing shiny, beautiful armour that seemed to gleam even in the dark of the hall. A chain collar hung loosely on his shoulders and covered part of his chest as well, adding to the breast plates that were designed to protect his torso from any blade or mace. Vambraces made of metal and leather covered his forearms, and silvery gauntlets made the armour complete. Kíli noticed that the leather scabbard had been polished, and he almost grinned at his brother's perfectionism. But he scolded himself for these thoughts immediately, glancing quickly at his own armour which shone just as brightly as his brother's. In battle, anything but perfection would get you killed.

"Kee?" asked Fíli again, pulling Kíli from his dark thoughts.

"It's the silence," mumbled Kíli, running a hand through his hair. "It makes me edgy. It's like the quiet before the storm."

"Because that's exactly what it is," Fíli answered. "A storm is coming, and we'll be right in the middle of it."

His blue eyes locked with Kili's own for a second before he glanced to his left. As Kíli followed his gaze he could see Thorin in a faraway corner, where he was talking to Balin and Óin. He bit his lip when he realised they hadn't had a proper conversation for days. The memory of their argument was still freshly engraved in his mind, and all the time that had followed he'd hoped for his uncle to come to his senses and apologise.

He obviously did see clearer now, but the apology had never come. And if that hurt Kíli, it was nothing compared to how his brother felt. Kíli knew that Fíli took it hard, and that he needed more than anything for his uncle to take back the words he'd said. The older one would never admit it, though, but instead tried to make believe that he was perfectly fine with the way things were. With how _wrong_ things were.

Fíli had never been able to fool his little brother.

"So we'll go through the hidden entrance and attack the orcs from behind," Fíli said, as if he was simply continuing a conversation. "They won't expect us, so we'll have the moment of surprise on our side."

He spoke matter-of-factly, as if he was planning a deer hunt in the woods of Ered Luin, and Kíli stared at him in disbelief.

"Really, Fee? Battle tactics?"

He didn't know what he'd expected, though. What was there to say, he wondered, when war was waiting behind the very walls that were supposed to protect his family?

Fíli shrugged and avoided Kíli's gaze.

"It's important to be prepared. Always know what your enemy is up to, and beat him to it."

"I remember Dwalin's lessons, brother."

Kíli said it with a smile, but that smile vanished when Fíli looked at him. There was a hint of sadness in Fíli's eyes that Kíli had rarely seen before. Only in that moment he noticed how grown up his brother suddenly seemed. He had left their home as a youngster, and arrived at their new home as an adult.

_We've both grown up._

Somehow that thought scared Kíli. It felt like the days of innocent youth were now behind them, and eyes that had perceived too much horror now only mirrored the memory of careless childhood days.

"Training with Dwalin," Fíli reminisced as if he could read his brother's mind. "Good times."

"Aye." For a moment neither of them spoke, but eventually Kíli couldn't take the silence any longer. "Fee... don't you think we should –"

"No." Fíli knew, of course, what his little brother was talking about. He glanced in Thorin's direction, and when he looked at Kíli again his face was hardened, his jaw set and his lips pressed to a thin line. "No, Kíli, I can't. This mess we're in – that's on him."

"He never asked for the orcs to come here," Kíli reminded him, but he knew that it was vain.

"The dead people of Laketown, the ruins of that city, that's his fault. He promised that he wouldn't succumb to the gold sickness, and I believed him. All my life I believed in him, and now it's all bones and ashes." His voice was hoarse, and the despair in his icy blue eyes sent shivers down Kíli's spine.

"Yet you didn't hesitate when he called for arms. Your belief in him is shaken, but not broken."

He was clutching at a straw and he knew it, but there was a small voice in the back of his head that urged him to remind Fíli of this fact nonetheless. Somehow he felt it was incredibly important that Fíli remembered his love for their uncle, but he tried to shut out the voice when it told him that they might not get another chance to reconcile.

Fili sighed wearily and plucked his moustache absent-mindedly. Kíli's eyes fell onto the silver clasps, and he remembered the day Thorin had given them to Fíli when his beard was finally long enough to be braided. Another pair of clasps was still in the old drawer back in their home in Ered Luin, but it seemed that they would have to wait for Kíli a while longer, much to his frustration. Subconsciously he rubbed his chin with his right hand, feeling the stubble scrape against his palm, and he huffed. He would probably be the first beardless dwarf to ever fight in a battle.

"Aye, it is shaken alright," Fíli said, and his voice sounded distant as he spoke. There was more to it, Kíli realised, and he put a hand onto his brother's arm.

"What is it, _nadad_?" he asked carefully, and he felt Fíli tensing up. He knew Fíli didn't want to talk about it, and part of him told him to let it be, since there were more important things right now and they'd have more than enough time some other day, anyway.

_Maybe there won't be another day._

Kíli screwed his eyes shut for a split second, as if he could shut out the relentless, sneering voice inside his head.

Fíli shook his head, and his blonde hair covered his eyes as he avoided Kíli's gaze. His chest was heaving, and Kíli understood that his brother was barely holding it together in that moment. He pressed his arm more firmly and pulled him close, until Fíli couldn't help but look at Kíli. His deep blue eyes were wide and suspiciously shiny, the past events obviously taking their toll on him. Quickly Kíli looked around him, and was relieved to find the rest of the group far away and obviously occupied with themselves and each other.

"Fee? Please."

Fíli let out a shaky breath, and for a moment he only stared at Kíli so that the younger one thought he wouldn't speak at all. But just when he considered shaking the words out of his stubborn big brother, the older one opened his mouth.

"I'm scared, Kee. Scared that things will go wrong, and that all this will be for nothing."

"But –"

"This isn't just a little brawl with some stupid mountain trolls, or a struggle with a bunch of spiders. This is _war_." His voice hitched at the last word, and Kíli choked. "If things go wrong, I don't know how I'll –"

He stopped mid-sentence when a shiver racked his body that had nothing to do with the winter chill that had crept into the mountain halls.

"What if I'll be just like Thorin, if I'll become just as mad about the gold as he and everyone in our line before him? The mountain, the treasure – so much pain and blood all over some stone and metal, and I know that the blood of everyone who dies in this forsaken land outside these walls will be on our hands. The crown will be tainted with blood, and someday they'll ask me to wear it and how can I if it's paid for with blood and death?"

His eyes were even wider than before, and in a strange way wild, and he took a shuddering breath while Kíli couldn't say anything for a moment.

_A kingdom built on blood will never last._

A sudden yell startled the brothers.

"Get ready! Gather your weapons!" It was Thorin, and for a moment his gaze locked with Kíli's. It was fiery and wild even from the distance, but the young dwarf thought that he saw something else flicker in them. Recognition, forgiveness, love. It might just be wishful thinking.

Through a crack in the wall Kíli could see that the sun was indeed descending, hanging low above the horizon, and his heart grew cold. There was no way back now. Mechanically he checked his weapons once more, and his fingers were shaking as he readjusted his body armour. Light material, nothing too stiff, for it would hinder his shooting and slow him down in one-on-one combat. He thought that very soon his life would depend on the strength of that armour, and his stomach lurched a little at the thought.

"Be careful, little brother."

He flinched when suddenly Fíli put his hands onto his upper arms. The blonde stared at him, and there was so much that Kíli wanted to say, but in that moment he couldn't find any words. And what was there to say? Nothing Kíli had ever been taught could have prepared him for that moment. Nothing had warned him of the fear that he tried so hard to keep at bay, yet everything he'd done had led to this.

"Take care of yourself, Fee," he whispered, and he felt ashamed of how weak and childlike his voice sounded. He squared his shoulders in an attempt to make himself look like a warrior fitting for the armour he was wearing. It was time to grow up. "And Fee... I just want you to know that –"

"No." He was cut short by his brother's firm voice, and he gasped for air when the elder one pulled him into a tight embrace. He could feel Fíli's moustache tickling his cheek, and the metal of his armour was cold underneath his palms. "Whatever it is, you'll tell me when this is over. No goodbyes."

His voice was quivering, and Kíli bit his lip because he wanted to say something, _anything_, but he knew that Fíli was right. He was always right. And Kíli told himself that his life would not only depend on his armour, but rather on those who fought by his side. His brother would not let him down.

_That's why he'll be a wonderful king. _

They departed, and before they went towards the hidden entrance, Kíli looked his brother in the eyes once more.

"Mizùl, nadad. "

"Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal, nadadith."

They had made their choices, and as the dwarves tore down the door and stormed onto the battlefield their battle cries echoed from the mountain walls and mingled with the shouts and cries of the men and elves and dwarves and orcs.

"Barûk khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!"

And thus the battle began for Kíli and Fíli, sons of Dís.

_I'll never wear your broken crown  
I can take the road and I can fuck it all away  
But in this twilight our choices seal our fate_

(Mumford and Sons, "Broken Crown")

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**A/N 1: Damn, I love this song so freaking much! I first heard it in a Game of Thrones-Video, if you're a GoT fan look it up on YT.**

**A/N 2: Mizùl = Good luck. - Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal. = May we meet again with the grace of Mahal. (The latter is rather formal, but I like to think of it as a traditional goodbye before going into battle.)**

**A/N 3: Reviews make my day *hint hint***


	7. This is war (Balin, Bofur)

Ahhhhhhhh *crazyfangirlscreaming* I just ordered my ticket and hotel room for HOBBIT CON 2015! So excited! Roll on April! So here's the new chapter, it's about Balin and Bofur, I hope you'll like it! (Warning: might get gory in some places.)

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**7: This is war **

If Balin Fundinul had thought that the battle at Azanulbizar would be the most horrible experience of his rather long life, he would find out soon that he had been terribly mistaken.

The old dwarf had seen cruelty and death, blood and tears, he had seen the horrors of war – and still he could simply stare with wide, terrified eyes for a moment when the company of dwarves breached through the hidden door and onto the battlefield. The number of warriors seemed endless, and everywhere the forms of men and elves and dwarves and orcs mingled into a mass of grey and red, while the noises of battle deafened Balin's ears so that he couldn't hear his own battle cries anymore. He glanced to his left as he ran towards the enemy with his axe raised above his head, and from the corner of his eye he saw his brother, his face contorted in rage, eyes narrowed to mere slits as he approached the first orc that dared stand in his way. Balin couldn't hear anything, but he saw Dwalin opening his mouth to a roar as he decapitated the orc, and he felt the rush of wind as the blade of an orc sword swung by only inches away from his face.

It was that sensation that shook Balin from his state of initial shock.

"Barûk khazâd!" he cried on top of his lungs, and he wielded his axe with all strength he could muster as the huge mass of orcs advanced towards him and his kin. The light of the setting sun got caught in the metal of his blade, and for a split second he marvelled at how beautiful the deadly weapon was. A second later it was covered in black blood.

The nameless orc fell to the ground, a look of surprise on its ugly face and its hands clasped around its throat from which blood kept spurting long after its last breath had been drawn. Another took his place, and Balin screamed and hacked and yelled and killed.

"Balin!"

He spun around and choked, and his feet darted forwards before his mind even had the time to fully understand what was going on. Thorin and Dwalin were fighting back to back, and they were standing amidst a circle of orcs that screeched in Black Speech and attacked from all directions. The two dwarves were excellent fighters, each taking out numerous of their opponents, their movements in perfect coordination – and yet the orcs were closing in on them. A sword caught Dwalin's upper arm, and the tattooed dwarf roared with anger rather than pain, paying no attention to the blood that appeared where his armour had been ripped.

Balin saw the blood, his _brother's_ blood, and his vision went white with rage.

He lunged forward with a war cry on his lips, and from the periphery of his vision he thought he could see Thorin's nephews rushing towards them as well, and for a brief moment he wondered where the rest of the company were. But then he reached the circle of orcs and his axe collided with an orc's neck, and nothing else mattered but his brother and his oldest friend.

_If we shall die tonight, we shall all die together._

But he wouldn't let it come to this, not as long as he still drew breath. Another orc fell by his axe, and from the other side Fíli and Kíli cleared the rows of orcs surrounding their uncle, and Balin felt a pang of pride as he watched them wielding their weapons with ease, not stopping for a moment as they worked together in unmatched unison. Fíli's twin swords blurred, so fast he swung them at the orcs, and those he didn't kill were felled by Kíli's sword, that was already black at the edges.

Balin's eyes met Thorin's for a moment, and he could see them gleaming in the light of the setting sun as he mouthed an inaudible "Thank you". Dwalin merely nodded courtly at his brother, before he turned on his heels and cut the sword arm of the orc that had sneaked up from behind. The creature howled in pain, gazing at the blood rushing from the stump, and Dwalin's next strike was probably mercy to the orc as it fell to the ground with wide, lifeless eyes staring up at the twilight sky.

But Balin wasn't granted the chance to wonder about the mercy of death. The enemy kept closing in on them, and everything became a haze as the battle sucked in him and kept him tightly in its deadly fangs.

_Tonight we strike, there is thunder in the sky  
Together we'll fight, some of us will die  
But they'll always remember that we made a stand  
And many will die by my hand_

(Manowar, "Hand of doom")

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Bofur had always been good with words. He could make up a song from scratch, he could tell stories that made the dwarflings of Ered Luin gasp and squeal, he could give great speeches and recite beautiful poems.

But no words could ever describe the horrors that he saw when he left the safety of the mountain. This wasn't like the heroic tales of battle that he had been told and had told himself, tales of brave warriors taking on enemies tenfold their size, of acts of heroism, of valiant fights and honourable deaths.

This was war.

He wielded his axe, slicing and hacking at every orc that dared to come near him, and all the time he heard the screams echoing inside his head and he wished he could just cover his ears and drown it all out. A dwarf fell only a few feet from where he was standing and his eyes widened in terror before they went cold, and Bofur stood paralysed and couldn't avert his own eyes from the shockingly scarlet blood running down the stranger's neck and chest.

"Bofur!"

Faintly he heard someone shout his name, but he couldn't move, he couldn't do anything, and the orc approached him with its mace raised above its head. It roared something that Bofur didn't understand, or was it simply his mind refusing to work?

_I will die here. I'm a little toymaker, and I will die here._

"Bofur!"

Someone pushed him away, just when an arrow landed itself in the orc's head. An elf appeared behind the creature, but he paid no attention to the dwarf as he rushed on. Bofur whirled around, gasping for breath, and he was surprised to find himself face to face with Bard.

"Th- thank you," he stammered, and he wanted to say more, but the man only nodded and was gone. The dwarf followed him with his eyes for a moment, only to find more orcs coming his way, and he raised his axe once more. One orc fell, and another one, and another one, and Bofur screamed until his throat was sore.

He didn't allow himself to rest, and he certainly forbade himself to search for the others or even wonder whether they were alright. His brothers had to be safe, anything else was simply out of the question. He saw elves and men, and dwarves of Dáin's army, and for a brief moment he thought he recognised Glóin, but he was gone before Bofur could reach out for him.

Suddenly he slipped and almost fell, and as he looked down his stomach lurched, making him dry heave and screw his eyes shut despite the battle. When he opened them again, the bloodied hand was still there, pale fingers still clutching the sword that had failed to protect its owner whose body was not be seen. It was a beautiful sword, with only a few spots of blood on the shiny metal, and for a reason unbeknownst to him Bofur suddenly bent down. He touched the cold fingers, and he gagged when he realised how stiff they already were, as if they didn't want to let go of the weapon or of the battle itself.

_May it protect others where it couldn't protect you._

With that quick prayer for the fallen he took the sword from the hand, and stashed it in his belt. He would honour its previous owner, he swore to himself, he would fight and not rest until the last enemy was defeated. The free peoples would be victorious, and the victory would be an honourable one, and they would have peace for good.

He clung to these words, and they echoed in his head as he threw himself at the army of orcs once more. He didn't know how much time passed. It could be hours or mere seconds, he lost all sense of time as the battle raged around him. In a sea of grey and red he couldn't see the sun anymore, and he wondered whether the sun would still rise after all the blood that had been shed.

An anguished cry pierced the air, and Bofur froze for a split second before he turned around. He could see a huge orc standing with its back to him, towering above a small figure on the ground. The mace was but a silhouette against the sky as the orc roared and lifted its weapon above its head.

"Noooo!"

Bofur didn't even recognize the voice as his own at first, and before he could fully comprehend what was happening he flung himself at the orc, sinking his axe into its back. The blade got stuck in the orc's skin, and the creature howled and shrieked as it turned around in a vain attempt to pull it out. Bofur stumbled backwards as the orc came closer, and for a short moment he thought that it was all over. Just then his fingers found the hilt of the sword, and with a battle cry he leapt forward and buried the sword deep inside the orc's stomach. He cried out in shock just like the orc as he pulled the sword back out, and within seconds his fingers were covered in thick, black blood and other matter that Bofur didn't want to think about. He gasped when the orc doubled over and dropped dead on the ground. He stared wide-eyed at the creature, trying in vain to take his eyes off the grisly puddle of blood and intestines that was visible beneath the orc's body.

_My axe. My bloody axe is still stuck in that bloody piece of scum. My –_

"Help me!"

He flinched, for a moment believing he had imagined the voice.

"Please..."

The voice was raspy and thin, and filled with agony. Slowly Bofur turned around, realising only then that the battle had calmed down. Countless numbers of orcs were lying across the battlefield, but Bofur knew that there were others among the dead.

He knew who was calling for him. He knew that the orc he had just killed had landed a strike before, he knew because he had heard the scream and he wished desperately that he could have just been there sooner. A second, two maybe. Too long for the young dwarf that now stared at Bofur with wide, terrified eyes.

The toymaker dropped to his knees beside the dwarf, and his heart beat ceased for a moment as he took in the dwarf before him. He choked and blinked a few times, because that youth just looked _so much_ like Fíli. And it could as well have been him, because war didn't differ, didn't care who was left behind, but this wasn't Fíli, it wasn't, couldn't be.

The young dwarf drew ragged breaths, and with each breath blood spurted out of his mouth, running down his chin and onto his chest as he struggled to sit up.

"Lie still," whispered Bofur, putting a hand onto the stranger's arm. His gaze fell onto the dwarf's breast plate that was horribly dented and even broken in one place. Dáin's crest on his chest. Dáin's, not Fíli's.

"Please, I need to... I need to find...," the dwarf wheezed, screwing his eyes shut as he spoke, and Bofur saw with a sinking heart that this young warrior would not get up again.

"Who do you need to find?"

"Please, help me... help... my brother, he's –", and he coughed and cried out in pain, and all Bofur could do was stroke his hair and pray for a miracle.

"My brother... need to tell him... my brother... my brother..."

Desperate sobs escaped the youth's mouth, and Bofur could feel his own eyes fill as he leant closer towards the young one.

"What's your brother's name? What's your name?"

"Kirun. Kirun, he's my brother... my brother..."

"What's your name?" repeated Bofur, fighting against the lump in his throat as the young dwarf's eyes became more and more unfocused, and he slapped his cheek gently. "Don't do that laddie, don't do that! What's your name? What's your name, lad, come on!"

But as he put his hand to the youth's face once more he found it already cold, and he understood. He let out a drenched gasp, and with shaking hands he closed the young dwarf's eyes.

"May Mahal find you," he mumbled. "As I will find my brother."

He got to his feet, and when he searched the horizon he found that the sun had almost vanished completely. He could see the moon rising in the twilight, emitting a soft red light, almost as if the moon itself was covered in the blood that now soaked the battlefield below.

He stumbled across the plain, and from far away he heard voices calling, telling him that the orcs would soon attack again, that this had been but the first wave, but he refused to believe it. What more could possibly be done? Had not every imaginable cruelty already happened? How could it possibly get worse than this? He needed to find his brother, needed to see that he was alright. Good, kind Bombur.

He sobbed quietly and hastily wiped his face, almost gagging again when he tasted blood on his tongue.

"Bofur! Brother!"

A yell reached through to him, and he lifted his head. A figure came running towards him, and then he fell into his brother's arms and buried his face in the crook of his thick neck.

"You're safe," he heard Bombur mumble, "thank Mahal you're safe, my brother."

And Bofur couldn't speak, but he could cry, and cry he did - for the dead, for himself, and most of all for the dwarf named Kirun and his nameless, dead brother.

_Now the dark begins to rise  
Save your breath, it's far from over_

(Breaking Benjamin, "I will not bow")

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**A/N 1: The moment I heard Kíli's "firemoon story", I couldn't help thinking of a story I once read. It's called "Die Hüter der Rose" (engl.: The Protectors of the Rose, or something like that) by Rebecca Gablé. **

_**"Something terrible had started, that concerned not only his family, but also the King, House Lancaster, and all of England. The blood moon was shining for them all." **_

**In that story this red moon is a bad omen, and many lives, including the king's, are in danger. That's why there's a red moon rising in this story ;)**

**A/N 2: Next chapter will be Thorin's! **


	8. Unknown soldier (Thorin)

I finished another chapter yesterday, so that means you get a new chapter today! :) Thanks, as always, to my lovely reviewers, I can't say just how much your reviews mean to me!

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**8: Unknown soldier **

The orcs were retreating. Thorin watched them as they fled, absent-mindedly wiping the blood off his hands. There was nothing victorious about it.

"They will soon return, and stronger," grumbled Dwalin next to him, as if he could read his troubled mind. "Those were just scouts."

"Aye," replied Thorin wearily, "and that's why we mustn't fall for that false sense of security."

He was surprised to find his voice shaking slightly. He saw a man not far away, cradling a fallen comrade in his arms, and he could hear distant cries and the shrieking of crows. The night sky was illuminated by the soft light of the moon that now stood huge and pale above the scenery laid out before the dwarven king. The horizon was still of a grey and blue colour, as if the sun refused to abandon those fighting in the twilight. He took a deep breath.

"Dwalin, we must get the wounded to the healers' tent, and then regroup. Quickly."

The bald dwarf nodded, already walking away, and for a moment Thorin was alone. Only then he realised where the pit in his stomach came from.

_Alone. Where are they? Mahal, they were close, they can't –_

But he forbade himself to delve further into these thoughts. He made his way across the battle field, putting his hand up to cover his mouth and nose as the stench of death already rose from the ground. He stumbled over the corpse of an orc, and as he regained his balance he froze.

"No! No, no..." he stammered, the image before him swimming before his eyes as he fell to his knees next to a blonde, young dwarf. "Mahal, no, don't let it be him!"

He gasped when the shape of the dwarf became clear again. He had looked so much like Fíli that for a second he had thought that his heart would break right there and then, and he felt ashamed of his relief when he found that it was a stranger. He ought not to be glad, for that was someone else's nephew, someone else's son, someone who was loved and would be missed.

But not Fíli.

He rested his hand on the dwarf's shoulder for a moment, wondering where the younger one had come from, before he stood up from his kneeling position. Time was too precious for the wounded to be spent with the dead. It was one of the first lessons he'd learned in battle, all those decades ago.

"Thorin, give me a hand!" someone shouted, and he recognised the voice as Glóin's. Immediately he ran towards his friend and found him pushing at a dead warg. A pained groan came from somewhere beneath the beast, and Thorin's stomach lurched when he spotted the man who had been buried underneath the warg.

The two dwarves pushed with all strength they could gather, but to no avail. The man's quiet moans turned into cries of agony, and Thorin cursed and pushed, and he cursed some more when the cries subsided and the man was suddenly silent.

"No, come on!" grunted Glóin, frustration echoing in his voice. "Come on!"

Both dwarves pushed against the dead animal, and out of nowhere two more appeared and pulled from the other side. With a roar Thorin focused all his strength on the task, and suddenly the beast moved, making the two foreign dwarves almost fall over from the sudden lack of resistance.

"Thank you," said Thorin, panting a little, and the two dwarves bowed slightly.

"At your service," they answered in unison, and the next moment they were gone, leaving Thorin and Glóin with the unconscious man.

"To the healers, quick!" commanded the black-haired dwarf, and he scooped the man up with his hands under his armpits, while Glóin seized the man by his legs. He was heavy, and Thorin was exhausted, but he would be damned if he gave up now. Carrying the man gave him something to do, and he was willing to do anything if he could thus keep the voice out of his head.

_Your company is gone. Your nephews are gone. You failed them, Thorin Oakenshield._

"No," he whispered in despair, "no, they're not."

"What did you say?" asked Glóin, and Thorin flinched and shook his head.

"Nothing."

They reached the tent after what seemed like hours, though in reality it couldn't have been more that a few minutes. An unknown dwarf rushed towards them as Thorin called for help. He had grey hair and a long beard that was tucked into the belt that kept his tunic in place. There was blood on his forearms, and he looked wearily at the two dwarves and the man.

"Bring him inside," he ordered, and Thorin and Glóin obliged. The dwarven leader noticed how his friend craned his neck, and he knew that he was searching for his brother. They laid the injured man onto a bed, and Thorin could feel a familiar lump in his throat when he gazed at the many beds that were already occupied by numerous wounded warriors. He wondered how many more would come before the night was over.

He threw one last look at the stranger who was now being tended to by two men, and he turned to the flapping wall of the tent when all of a sudden noises erupted in another corner of the large tent. Strangled cries mixed with loud shouting, and Thorin stopped dead in his tracks.

"Keep him still, for Durin's sake!"

"Let me go, please, I need to –"

"Ori, hold him down!"

Thorin rushed towards the source of the noise, and his heart leapt with relief when his eyes perceived Óin and Ori. The young dwarf was pinning down someone on the bed, while another, unknown dwarf seized the injured one's legs. His old friend had his back turned to Thorin, shielding the wounded from the king's view. The sheets were red with blood, though, and cautiously Thorin stepped closer.

"I'm alright, let me go, I need to find my brother, please let me go!" The angry voice turned into heart rendering cries. "He's out there, I need to... need to – ah!"

The scream shook the tent, and Óin sighed as Ori stared at him in shock.

"It's better for him to be unconscious, laddie."

The healer stepped aside, and suddenly Thorin had a clear view on the injured dwarf. All air seemed to leave him, and he felt bile rising up in his stomach that had nothing to do with the mass of flesh and blood that was the dwarf's leg.

He knew that face.

"Do you know his name?" he asked Óin quietly, and only now the grey-bearded dwarf became aware of him.

"Thorin! Thank the Valar you're alive and well!"

"My brothers, have you seen them?" Ori piped up, staring wide-eyed at his king. His face fell visibly when Thorin bit his lip and shook his head.

"Óin, do you know his name?" he repeated, praying silently that the healer would negate the question, because he didn't really want to know anything about the young dwarf.

"His name is Kirun."

Now he knew his name. And he knew that Kirun would never find his brother again.

_He fought for you. How do you deserve his sacrifice?_

"Thorin!"

Dwalin was calling for him, and part of Thorin was glad to get away. He couldn't bear to look at Kirun a second longer, or any of the wounded warriors that were lying in the tent. Again and again the voice sneered at him, sniggered, and he knew that it was right in doing so.

He met Dwalin in front of the tent, and his old brother in arms looked worriedly at him.

"The elves are still having a hard time fighting the orcs on the other side of the mountain, Roäc told Balin. More will soon be here, and..." He hesitated before looking straight at his king. "Azog is marching with them, as is his son."

It was frightening to feel the effect the name of the pale orc had on Thorin. Just the name was enough to make his blood boil and his heart almost burst with fury. Twice now he had faced the Defiler, and twice he had failed to end him. There wouldn't be a third time, he swore to himself. He would wipe that malicious, evil grin off his ugly face, he would make him regret the day he had first laid hands onto the line of Durin, he –

The line of Durin.

"Dwalin, have you seen my nephews? Have you seen Fíli and Kíli?" he asked, sensing despair wash over him as his friend shook his head, troubled eyes refusing to meet his own.

"Thorin, we need to plan the next step, and we need to do it now. The orcs will be back any minute."

He spoke with unmistaken urgency, but Thorin refused to listen to his reasoning.

"No, Dwalin, I need to find them, I need to make sure they're safe!"

"They will be." Thorin gasped when Dwalin grabbed him by the shoulders and squeezed them not too gently. "Thorin, I know you're worried. So am I. But we taught them well, and they will be alright. You mustn't lose sight of what needs to be done now. Thorin?"

"Dwalin –"

But his words caught in his throat when he looked past his friend's shoulders. He took a shuddering breath, and another, and on the third breath he took the two shadowy figures were close enough for him to recognise them.

"They're alive," he whispered raspily, and he freed himself from Dwalin's iron grip and crossed the distance between himself and the two dwarves with only a few long strides.

"Uncle!" called Kíli, and then he was in Thorin's arms. The older dwarf pulled him close, sending silent prayers to the Valar for looking after his young, fierce wolf. Blood covered the side of Kíli's face, but in the twilight Thorin didn't know whether it was his own or someone else's. And it didn't matter, all that mattered was –

"You're alive. You're alive."

He let go of his youngest nephew, and there was Fíli, looking at the two of them with the strangest expression on his face. His armour was rent at his upper arm, and Thorin thought he could see traces of blood underneath the chainmail.

"Fíli, you're hurt."

"'Tis but a scratch."

For a moment the two dwarves just stared at each other, and Thorin took in the image of his heir as if he saw him for the first time. His formerly shiny armour was covered in dirt and grime, and his braids had come loose, giving him a rather wild look that only added to the weapons strapped to his back and stashed into his belt. Thorin remembered quite clearly the day Fíli had been born, the little boy small enough to fit into his hand, and he also remembered how he had been happy – really, truly happy – for the first time in many years.

His heir, the son he never had, his brave lion who had picked up the pieces of his life and helped him rebuild his world without even knowing it.

"I'm sorry, Fíli." The words left his mouth on their own accord, but he had never meant anything as much as he meant these words. Suddenly Fíli was in his arms, and he held him tight and finally allowed himself to calm down. "I am so, _so_ sorry Fíli. I was wrong, and instead of listening to you I drove you away. And now look what came out of it."

He scanned the area before him, all the while feeling the cold metal of his nephew's armour underneath his palms. This was what really mattered. Not a stone, or a mountain, or gold. If only he had realised that earlier.

"_Gajut men, namadinùdoy_."

He heard Fíli inhaling deeply, and he had never wished more for forgiveness than in that moment.

"I forgive you."

Three words, but they were enough in the twilight of the battle field, and Thorin would hold on to them and make sure he deserved them. There was so much more that needed to be said, but now was not the time.

He let go of Fíli, and he gave both his nephews a scrutinising look. Kíli seemed nervous, absent-minded somehow as he shifted where he stood. Fíli was standing tall and rigid, awaiting his command.

"The orcs are regrouping," said Thorin, and he wasn't surprised about the lack of emotion on the younger ones' faces. They had expected no less. "We need to stand closely together, they mustn't get past us. Dáin will come to our aid once his army has cleared the eastern slope of the mountain, but before then we will have to rely on ourselves, on each other. Follow me."

He made to leave, but Kíli remained where he was, biting his lower lip as he gazed at the endless field around them.

"Uncle, I... I need to find someone. I'll meet you soon."

Thorin stared at the raven-haired dwarf aghast, and immediately his eyes searched Fíli's. To his utter surprise the blonde nodded slowly.

"Do what you have to do, _nadadith_. Just –"

He didn't have to finish his sentence.

_Just be careful. Take care of yourself. And above all, don't get yourself killed._

Thorin cleared his throat.

"Can you please fill me in? Who do you have to find?" He shook his head. "Kíli, whoever you hope to find... don't hope. There are hundreds on this field and beyond, don't do that to yourself."

But Kíli had always been as stubborn as any Durin, and the defiant look in his eyes told the dwarven leader that even a raging war would not make an exception.

"There is still hope."

Thorin knew he ought to make him stay. He should never let him out of his sight again, for that matter. But he looked at his youngest, and he saw the determination in the dark eyes that would now forever carry the shadows of what they had seen that night. If there was only the tiniest bit of hope left for him, Thorin would not take it away.

He nodded at the young one and watched as he rushed away. Fíli was standing next to him, and Thorin swore silently that once Kíli was back from wherever he'd run off to, he wouldn't let them out of his sight again. He would look out for them and keep them safe. He wouldn't let the line of Durin be broken.

_This road I walk is paved with broken promises I've made  
At least a million times I've fallen  
But never will I break_

(Three Doors Down, "Never will I break")

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**A/N 1: What do you think? I needed Thorin to apologise before - you know. *sighs* **

**A/N 2: If you want to know where Kíli is leaving to, read the last chapter of "Starlit Skies"... and yes, his quote "There is still hope" was stolen from Arwen, of course. **

**A/N 3:_ Gajut men, namadinùdoy_. = Forgive me, sisterson. (There is no direct translation for "nephew", but in a Khuzdul lesson on YT I learned that all Khuzdul words are made up of no more than three radicals - all other words are combinations. E.g. nûlukh (moon) + lukhud (light) = nûlukhlukhud (moonlight). Hence, namad (sister) + inùdoy (son) = sisterson = nephew ;))  
**

**A/N 4: Next chapter will have Glóin and Fíli!**

**(Wow, that's a lot of author's notes! LOL)**


	9. The stranger within (Glóin, Fíli)

Guess who ordered her ticket for the Middle-earth marathon at her local cinema? 21 hours of Middle-earth, including the midnight premiere of BOFA. Not sure how I can deal with that level of awesome.

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**9: The stranger within **

_"There is a savage beast in every man, and when you hand that man a sword or spear and send him forth to war, the beast stirs."_  
― George R.R. Martin, _A Storm of Swords_

They were surrounded. From all directions orcs were coming at them, and the dwarves of Thorin's company awaited them with their axes and hammers and swords in their hands, and the courage of the dwarves in their hearts. Eleven against hundreds.

Glóin grasped his axe so tightly that he thought his knuckles would pop out from under his gauntlets. The two blades of the axe shone even in the darkness, sharp and strong they were, ready to defend him until his last breath. It was an incredibly beautiful axe, and Glóin remembered the day his father had handed it to him. And some day, he would pass it on himself, to his son Gimli.

His son, his pride and joy, more valuable than a mountain of Mithril or a lake of molten gold.

His throat constricted at the thought of his son and his wife. He clearly recalled Gimli begging him to let him come with him, and back then he had been a little reluctant to leave him behind. He had been sure that it would do the lad some good to get out of Ered Luin, and of course Gimli had been eager to join his father and his friends Fíli and Kíli. Mahal be blessed, his wife had won the argument, and Gimli had stayed with her, and he had surely comforted her after she'd kissed her husband goodbye.

His wonderful, wise, and oh so beautiful Lea. Glóin conjured the image of her, the one in his head that didn't even come close to the picture he had given to Óin. Giving the picture away had nearly torn his heart in two, but he would rather not see it again than having it in the hands of an orc. He knew that orcs liked to search the bodies of the dead, and no way would he allow them to lay so much as a filthy finger on his most precious property.

He tried to ignore the reasonable part of him that told him that, should they lose this battle, the orcs wouldn't stop at a healers' tent. They would ravage everything in their way.

_They will not win. We will stay strong, and we will defeat the orc scum._

He repeated the words in his head, keeping his eyes straight ahead as the orcs closed in on them. He could smell them, their stinky breath, the blood staining their hideous bodies, but also their fear. He focused on an orc marching in the first row, and he kept his eyes firmly on the filthy creature. He could see that the orc was startled by this, and Glóin gripped his axe more tightly and bared his teeth – or what could be counted as that. And the orc flinched. The bastard _flinched_, and Glóin relished the little moment of triumph as the orc tried to step out of line in order to avoid the red-bearded dwarf. But there was no way for the orc to escape, and a wild laugh escaped Glóin's lips as the orcs were finally before them. He swung his axe, and he didn't take his eyes off the orc as the blade came down on him.

"Barûk khazâd ai-menu," he whispered, and the orc's eyes were wide with terror as Glóin's blade cleaved head from torso with a mighty heap. The head landed at Nori's feet, and still the eyes were gazing up at the starlit sky above.

Another orc stepped over the remains of the torso, and soon Glóin's double-blade axe was black with blood.

"Where's Dáin?" called Dori breathlessly, just as he embedded his axe in the body of another orc. "Or anyone, really, for Durin's sake?"

Glóin didn't answer, and it wasn't only because he was too busy keeping the enemy at bay. Dáin's army should have come to their aid long ago, and the dwarves were growing desperate. They were trapped like rats in a corner, and the army of orcs seemed to be endless.

_You won't see them again._

The voice in his head snickered, taunting him with images of his wife and son, and he cried out as he launched himself at the nearest orc and cleaved him cleanly in half. They had to break through the ranks of orcs, if just to get away from this forsaken pit. Just then he spotted a gap in the rows of orcs not far away from where he was, and Thorin must have seen it, too.

"Glóin, Dori, break through!" he yelled, raising his sword high above his head. "Attack them from behind!"

The two warriors didn't hesitate, and they darted towards the gap. Part of Glóin disliked the idea of leaving his friends, but he knew it was a tactical decision he would have to accept. Once they were on the other side, other soldiers – dwarves, men, or even elves, Glóin didn't care anymore – might see them and come to help.

He hacked his way through the orcs that dared stand in his way, he could hear Dori cursing on top of his voice beside him, and suddenly they were faced with something Glóin had thought he wouldn't see again: the open field.

Of course it wasn't empty, there were fights everywhere, but the battle wasn't concentrated on one spot, and the alliance of men and elves was clearly getting the upper hand.

"Over here!" shouted Dori, waving his hand as he already attacked one of the orcs from behind that encircled the other dwarves. A couple of men looked in their direction, immediately understanding the situation, and to Glóin's utter relief they ran towards the two dwarves. A tall man produced a large bow and flung a few arrows into the orcs' backs before the creatures even knew what was happening. The dead bodies fell against the backs of their comrades, and only then the orcs realised that they were now the ones trapped between two armies. Some turned around, growling and shrieking, and soon the once closely packed troops dissolved into separate figures.

Men and dwarves launched at the orcs, and again Glóin found himself wielding his axe, sometimes picking up a short sword with his left hand for good measure. At one point he felt hot blood spurt onto his face when he cut an orc's throat, and a maniacal cry rose in his throat as the energy of battle filled his veins and sent him further into the madness of war.

Just for a brief moment he wondered whether, if Mahal was merciful enough to send him home, his wife would even recognise him.

_You're not alone  
I know I'm far from home  
Do you remember me at all?_

(Bullet for my Valentine, "Hearts burst into fire")

His arms were aching. Fíli had never thought his limbs could ever actually get tired in battle, it was a sensation unbeknownst to him who had spent his whole life training for this battle he now found himself in. He had spent long hours in the training grounds ever since he'd been a dwarfling, and often he had cursed Thorin and Dwalin when they'd pushed him to give just a little bit more. They had brought him to the edge of his strength and sometimes beyond, and he had hated them for it when he had found himself lying breathlessly in the dust once more.

He made a mental note to thank them for it once the fight was over.

The blonde swung one sword with his right hand, and the orc before him howled as a deep gash appeared on its chest. The armour of the orcs was of poor quality, Fíli had realised that soon enough, and he used that against them. It was an advantage, and Mahal knew they needed every advantage they could get against the orcs' strength in numbers. The orc in front of him was still standing, though, and despite the black blood pooling from the wound the creature came at Fíli with its mace raised above its head. Fíli ducked as the weapon came down, and the mace merely grazed his shoulder. Still the impact made him stumble, and he lost his footing and fell. Even while falling he reached out his arm and tried to bring his sword up to the orc, but the beast avoided the blade in spite of the sluggish movements that were clearly caused by the orc's injury. Fíli saw the shadow of the mace coming down once more, and his heart suddenly raced.

_I might die here._

The thought was so clear in his mind that it scared him even more than the orc looming above him. He didn't want to die. He really didn't want to die on this bloody forsaken field. Yet in that moment he understood, for the first time, that the odds were against him. This was no training ground, there were no breaks in between rounds, no understanding nod if he asked for rest. This was war, and Durin knew his arms hurt, and he hated the sight of his own dried blood on the once shiny armour that was supposed to protect his limbs.

An angry cry rose in his throat just as the mace came down, and he rolled to the side and felt the ground shaking from the impact as the weapon crashed down mere inches from where he'd been lying.

"Fíli!"

It was a scream filled with fear, and he knew that voice, he would recognise it anywhere. The orc suddenly squealed, then fell backwards with an arrow protruding from between its small, black eyes. Fíli turned his head and his own eyes met his brother's. Kíli ran towards him before Fíli had a chance to tell him to stay where he was. The dark-haired youth shouted something, and Fíli gasped when another orc came out of nowhere. Its axe was dripping with blood, and it was yearning for Durin blood as it came down on Thorin's heir.

"Noooo!"

The blade never touched Fíli. He saw the orc falling, taking his brother down with him who had flung himself at the enemy, and Fíli's vision went red as he heard Kíli cry out from underneath the orc. He was on his feet in a second, and with a battle cry that would have made his uncle proud he sunk the tips of both swords into the orc's back. Immediately the creature became limp, and Fíli didn't hesitate to grab it by the feet and pull it off his buried brother.

"Kíli!" he yelled in despair. "Kee, are you alright?"

A muffled groan was the only response and Fíli pulled harder at the orc's feet. One of its filthy comrades tried to come to its aid, suddenly appearing opposite Fíli and wielding a curved blade. It bared its teeth as it spotted the dwarf pinned beneath the orc, and a malicious grin deformed the ugly face into a mask of evil. The grin remained on the orc's face when it dropped dead, one of Fíli's throwing daggers stuck in its chest.

Finally, with the combined effort of Fíli's pulling and Kíli's pushing, the trapped dwarf was free, and Fíli helped him up.

"You look like an orc fell onto you," said Fíli with a smirk as he gave the younger one a scrutinising look. Kíli grinned wryly and punched him slightly.

"That's my excuse – what's yours?"

They spoke light-heartedly, and Fíli knew the reason for it. That had been just another close call, and both brothers began to ask themselves when it would be too close to get out alive. A bruise was visible on Kíli's face, blood had dried just underneath his scalp that looked too red to come from an orc, and he was clearly favouring his right leg even as he was just standing. Fíli didn't need to ask to know that the old orc wound was troubling his little brother, and for a split second the memories of that day flashed before his eyes. He had almost lost his brother back then, and now he was about to lose him all over again.

_He might die here._

His little brother, his _baby brother_, who had grown up so much during their journey and who barely resembled the youngster that had left Ered Luin, his brother whom he had sworn to keep safe might die on this forsaken field. His little brother who had seen enough death to last a lifetime, who had searched the battle field for an elf only to find her dead, and who had been too numb to even cry. Anger rose inside Fíli, it made his blood boil and his heart race wildly. Rage stirred in his chest, rage about the unfairness of war, in which the young died while the old got to live, in which evil wiped out the innocence of the good. He clenched the hilts of his swords and his fingernails left marks in the leather of his gloves. He didn't recognise himself in this angry, almost mad dwarf he had become, and in that moment he wondered how he could ever possibly go back to how he had been before. How _any_ of them could go back.

It was only a brief flash of thought, though, for the orcs granted the brothers no rest. They kept attacking, and Fíli kept fighting by Kíli's side, cursing the enemy that dared try to take his brother away from him.

Suddenly a sound filled Fíli's ears that made the hairs on his back of his neck stand up. A mighty roar, so inhuman, yet so familiar, could be heard over the heads of the fighting. It conjured memories of fear and despair, just as it created a new kind of hatred that Fíli had never known before. He didn't need to turn around to find the source of the terrible sound, one look into Kíli's eyes was enough.

_Azog._

He didn't see the pale orc, but he saw his uncle who had undoubtedly heard his arch enemy as well. Thorin froze where he stood, seemingly ignorant to the fighting around him, and it was a miracle to Fíli that no orc seized the opportunity to kill him right there and then. Cold fear crept up inside of him as he watched his uncle. He could see the change in his posture, in the way he held his head high and his sword higher. The hatred of a whole line of dwarves seemed to radiate off the dwarven king, and Fíli knew that in that moment nothing mattered to his uncle but the orc.

"Thorin, no!" someone called, most probably Balin, but already the dark-haired dwarf followed the roar of his most hated enemy. It was, of course, what Azog had been aiming for, and surely Thorin knew it as well. He just didn't care. Fíli watched horrified as his uncle left his comrades to fight the rest of the orcs, almost as if in trance seeking for the pale orc.

"Don't do that, Thorin," he begged silently, but to no avail. His eyes met Kíli's, and the younger one didn't need to speak.

_The line of Durin will stand united._

The brothers ran after their uncle, fighting their way through the orcs that tried to bring them down on their way, and Fíli thought that he heard someone calling his name. But all noises were muffled as if coming through a mist, the only distinctive noise being that of Azog's aggressive, bloodthirsty scream and his uncle and king's war cry as he made to revenge the pain that the orc had brought to his kin.

He would follow him to the end.

_If I should fall in battle, my brothers who fight by my side,  
Gather my horse and weapons, tell my family how I died  
Until then I will be strong, I will fight for all that is real  
All who stand in my way will die by steel_

(Manowar, "Warriors of the world")

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**A/N 1: I usually only quote song lyrics, but that one from Gamoe of Thrones/ A Song of Ice and Fire was just too perfect for this chapter, don't you think?**

**A/N 2: I know that Glóin mainly uses a different axe than the one I described here, but he certainly carries the axe that Gimli later has in LotR as well. And I thought that he would use that family heirloom in battle, a goodluck charm maybe ;)**

**Reviews, anyone? I'm quite curious to find out what you think of Glóin, since he's not exactly the easiest dwarf to write simply due to the fact that we don't see much of him in the movies.**

**Next one will be Dwalin again, yay!**


	10. Don't fall (Dwalin)

Thanks a lot for your reviews, and also a warm welcome to new followers! It's good to know that there are still people reading this (and Hobbit fanfics in general), since lately it seems to me as if the "Hobbit euphoria" has cooled down a little. Which is a shame because I'm in full-on Middle-earth mode - even more so now that I got tickets for both the movie marathon AND the convention :D

Anyway, here's the new chapter, and I apologise in advance for being so mean...

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**10: Don't fall **

"Thorin, no!"

Dwalin heard his brother's call, and his head shot up to search for his friend. Thorin was leaving the company, and Dwalin didn't need to hear the frightening roar to know the reason for it. Only one could make his leader abandon his friends, just one would rob him off all reason.

_Azog._

His eyes suddenly spotted Fíli and Kíli, and he cursed under his breath. He started to run after them, calling Fíli by his name, and he could hear Balin shouting his own name in return. It was madness, he knew it. They were still under attack, as he learned when another orc suddenly stood in his way which he killed like a fly without even stopping his movements. His comrades needed him. But he had made a vow to protect the line of Durin, and he had stuck to it through all his life. Mahal forbid he broke that vow now.

Raising Grasper high above his head, he followed his king, and the first orc that dared stand in his way regretted it the very instant he made the acquaintance of his axe.

"Well met," growled Dwalin. He darted past several dead bodies und almost bumped into an elf that came at him. The elf cursed, and Dwalin grinned under his beard. It was the first time he'd heard such foul language from the mouth of a pointy-ear, and he told himself to remember it later. It would surely amuse Thorin, and Durin knew he hadn't had much to laugh about lately.

While he was still chuckling to himself, a yell reached his ears. His grin faded, and he could feel all colour leaving his face as he watched the fight not far away from him.

"Fíli!"

He knew the youth couldn't hear him over the noises of battle, and even if it was quieter Dwalin doubted that he would even notice him. Having an arrow sticking out of your shoulder could do that to you, the seasoned warrior knew that. From the distance he saw Fíli stopping dead in his tracks, his body going rigid for a second, and as he turned his head Dwalin thought he could see his eyes widening. Kíli came running towards him, and Dwalin's own legs started moving again. But even as he ran Fíli grabbed the arrow shaft and pulled.

"Ah, laddie, that was stupid," Dwalin muttered, despite the pride he felt when his former pupil didn't utter a sound at what must surely have hurt a lot. His gaze went to Thorin, and his breath caught in his throat when he saw what he hadn't seen before.

Azog, the pale orc, was facing his friend. Immediately images appeared before his inner eye, of Thorin attacking Azog, of Thorin being hit by the mace, of Thorin lying motionlessly on the ground, as pale as Death himself.

For a moment he couldn't move, all he could do was stare at his old brother in arms, and from him to his young nephews, one with blood running down his shoulder, one limping badly as he parried an attack, and to the orcs that slowly moved against them.

It was just a moment of distraction, but it was enough. Dwalin sensed rather than saw the movement behind him, and he turned around quickly, raising his weapon in a desperate attempt of defence. It saved his life, yet he couldn't completely block the club that had been swung to crush his skull. It shattered his chainmail and met the harder material of his breastplate, and it took the wind off Dwalin as his ribcage failed to resist the impact. He gasped for air, his weapon suddenly too heavy for his hand, and the orc sneered and attacked once more. Dwalin stumbled backwards, trying desperately to control his breathing and get rid of the stars before his eyes.

_It takes more than a filthy orc to knock me out._

But the orc came closer, and still Dwalin's arms were shaking. For a split second the thought came to him that he might actually die. He conjured all his willpower to raise his axe as the orc launched itself at him, but when the creature moved forwards a high-pitched scream suddenly pierced the air. A figure flung itself at the orc, and the beast screeched and turned away from Dwalin. He could faintly see a dagger sticking out of the orc's chest before the enemy had its back on him. The figure flew through the air like a puppet, and the orc roared triumphantly as it jumped after its victim. In one hand it held the club, and in the other an evil looking sword that glinted in the pale light of the moon.

It was that sight that Dwalin's dazzled brain needed.

"Step away!" he bellowed, raising both axes as he ran at the orc that seemed to ignore him.

A terrible cry of agony told Dwalin that he had waited too long. He screwed his eyes shut for the shortest of times, and then Grasper and Keeper buried themselves in the shoulders of the orc, cleaving his arms cleanly off. A second strike separated head from body.

The tattooed dwarf didn't waste a moment on the dead enemy, but rushed past him, preparing himself for the worst.

The worst scenario didn't even come close to what he found.

"Oh Mahal, no," he whispered, crashing to his knees next to the wounded dwarf, "what in Durin's name are you doing here?"

"No one had seen them," replied the dwarf hoarsely, and his eyes were shiny as he stared at Dwalin, one hand reaching out to his left thigh. "My leg..."

"Don't, Ori."

Dwalin tried his best to keep his face neutral as he quickly examined the young scribe's injury. Silently he cursed the bravery and stubbornness of his race. Ori should never have come here, he thought as he pressed his fingers onto the wound that kept spurting blood at an alarming rate.

_His bravery just saved your life._

"Dwalin, please, my brothers," gasped Ori, pain etched upon his pale face as he grabbed the sleeve of Dwalin's leather shirt.

"They're alive," grumbled Dwalin, and he decided to not tell the younger one that it had indeed been some time since he'd last seen Dori and Nori.

"Thank the Valar," murmured Ori, and he lifted his head to look at the wound in his leg. His eyes grew wide, and his breathing suddenly became irregular as he stared at Dwalin's fingers that were slick with scarlet blood. Then his head dropped back against the ground, and the older warrior cursed loudly.

"Damnit, lad, stay –"

Awake, he had intended to say, but before he could finish his sentence a warg appeared before the two dwarves on the ground. The fresh blood had probably attracted the beast, and Dwalin growled and stood threateningly above Ori.

"Don't even think of it."

The wolf-like creature howled once, then jumped at the dwarves, and its howling mingled with Dwalin's battle cry as he sunk his axe into the warg's neck. It shouldn't have been enough to finish the creature, but just as Dwalin eyed his axe in surprise a man appeared behind the dead animal. Only then the dwarf noticed the two arrows sticking out of the beast.

"Thank you," Dwalin called, but the man was gone before the dwarf had the chance to ask him for help.

His fingers were covered in red, frighteningly hot blood, and Dwalin scanned the area in despair to find someone to come to his aid. But Thorin was still fighting Azog, and Fíli and Kíli were keeping the orcs away from the fighting pair, and part of Dwalin urged him to race to them and fulfil his duty. Ori groaned quietly, and Dwalin snapped from his thoughts. They were doing alright.

_They'll be fine._

He repeated these words while he ripped a piece of cloth from his tunic and bound it tightly around Ori's leg. He winced when the young dwarf cried out, and to his surprise he found that his hands were shaking as he put them onto his friend's shoulders.

"Hold on, Ori. Don't worry, the healers will patch you up and you'll be back on your feet in no time."

Carefully he lifted the dwarf up, and he tried his best to not look at the large amount of blood the injured one left on the ground. He was no healer, and he surely had seen dwarves lose more blood and still be alright, but then again Ori had always been rather small and light, and Dwalin had no idea how much blood loss would be fatal. Right now the blood staining the ground, his hands and the side of Ori's leg looked like it could easily serve at least two grown men, or at least that was what it seemed like to Dwalin.

_Stay calm. You're doing him no favour if you panic._

"Dwalin?" The voice was barely audible, but filled with fear.

"Just a few steps, lad," said Dwalin as he ran across the battle field with Ori in a fireman's lift, using one hand to wield his axe and the other to hold his wounded friend.

"Tell my brothers –"

"No," Dwalin interrupted him rather harshly. "You'll tell them yourself. You tell them yourself, you understand that?"

But he got no answer, and when he looked at Ori's pale face he saw that his eyelids were dropping closed, and his breathing became frighteningly shallow. Blood was still dripping down his leg and onto Dwalin's armour despite the binding.

"No, Ori, come on, don't do that. Don't do that!" He was begging, he realised, begging the Valar to stop this cruelty. "We'll get through this, you understand me? You'll see the new dawn tomorrow, and the sun will dry the blood on this damned field, and you'll be fine, I promise. Just hold on, Ori, please."

He kept talking while his feet moved automatically, and after what seemed like eternity he found himself in front of the healers' tent.

"Somebody help me!" he cried out, his heart growing cold as Ori didn't even stir when he shouted.

An elf appeared before him, and she rushed over to the two dwarves with a frown on her beautiful face. Instinctively Dwalin pressed Ori closer to his body.

"I need a dwarven healer," he growled angrily. To his surprise the elf wasn't taken aback, but instead offered a friendly smile.

"There are some of your kin inside, but they are busy at the moment." She narrowed her eyes as she looked at Ori. "He is gravely injured. Let me help him. Please."

Never before had an elf treated him with such respect, and Dwalin didn't know what it was that made him step towards her. Maybe it was the concern in her blue eyes, or the urgency in her voice, or simply the fact that she had said "Please". But he wordlessly put Ori into her arms and watched her carrying him into the tent.

He stayed where he was, unable to move for a moment. His fingers were coated in dried blood, and where his armour had once been covered in black, sticky orc blood the dark was now mingled with the brightly red blood of his friend. He stared at his hands and he could still feel Ori's light body going limp in his grip, and his eyes started to burn in a way they hadn't done for decades. He bit his lip, and the pain distracted him from the one inside for a while.

He took a deep breath, and another, and then he squared his broad shoulders and grasped his weapons. His friends still needed him, and he wouldn't let them down. If it was the last thing he did, he would protect them.

_Don't fall, I see lights in the distance  
They're not far away  
Stand up because the sky is turning grey_

(Rise Against, "Long forgotten sons")

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**A/N 1: I'm sorry, Gisela... but I just couldn't let Ori stay behind. I've always imagined him to get involved in the battle and that somehow he'd end up with Dwalin (in a completely non-slash kind of way).**

**A/N 2: The moment I first heard the lyrics of the song, I had this image of Ori before my eyes. A lot of the songs I use in this story were changed around several times because they fit several chapters and/or characters - but this one always belonged to Ori.**

**A/N 3: Next one will be Fíli. You might want to start stocking up on tissues, as we're getting closer to certain events that I would love not to think about every effing day. ;(**


	11. Lionheart (Fíli)

I didn't want to post this before finishing chapter 16, but I'm kind of stuck there so maybe posting this (and probably receiving a review or two *hinthint*) will help. So this one is about Fíli... and all I can say is "I'm sorry".

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**11: Lionheart**

Every movement hurt. It sent flames from his shoulder blade down his back, and every time Fíli raised his left arm his vision went fuzzy for a moment. But he gritted his teeth and focused on what really mattered. Kíli and Thorin.

His little brother had long replaced his bow and arrows for his sword, since orcs kept coming from all directions and didn't give Kíli the chance to aim at them. So he swung his sword and took them out one by one, and Fíli couldn't help feeling proud of his brother who didn't let his wounded leg keep him from fighting like a maniac.

After fatally wounding an extremely ugly orc Fíli glanced at Thorin, and he felt again the pit in his stomach that had become so familiar to him. His uncle was bleeding from several wounds, and he stumbled more than once which made Fíli choke with fear. The dwarven warrior never fell, though, but continued to strike at Azog with pure hatred on his face.

Fíli thought that he had seen Dwalin not long ago, but as he searched for him he didn't spot him anywhere. Maybe his mind had played tricks on him.

Azog roared with anger, and the young prince gasped when he saw blood running down the pale orc's side. The orc stumbled backwards, and Thorin followed immediately, Orcrist perfectly still in his steady hands. Things looked much better all of a sudden, and the newly found optimism fuelled Fíli's battle strength. With all his might he slashed his sword at another orc, and when the creature fell he noticed that the number of the enemy was decreasing, if only a little. He smiled grimly at his brother, feeling dried blood crack as the corners of his mouth twitched.

Kíli's eyes met his own, but he didn't smile back. Instead his brown eyes widened in horror, a soundless cry escaping his mouth as he stared at something behind Fíli's back. The blonde turned on the spot, and he saw a blade coming down on him, aimed to take his life.

_Not yet._

The voice in his head spoke with the stubborn tone of the Durin line, and it was that voice that made Fíli move before his brain could even process what was happening. He could feel the rush of air as the blade passed his head by mere inches, and then he felt nothing at all.

For a blissful moment he was absolutely, comfortably numb.

Then someone screamed, and pain exploded in his thigh, making him see dark spots circling before his eyes as he fell to his knees. Faintly he heard the orc's victorious howl which turned into a gurgling sound, and suddenly Kíli was before him, cupping his face with both hands.

_He shouldn't drop his sword._

"Fíli? Fíli! Look at me, brother!"

He hadn't even realised that he'd closed his eyes, and it took a lot of effort to open them. He wished he could just keep them shut. But Kíli wouldn't let him, and slowly he forced his eyelids up. He stared at his little brother, gasping for air when the pain in his leg took his breath away the very moment he moved.

Somewhere behind Kíli he could see Thorin staggering, and Azog still on his feet, and he clenched his fists in anger. Blindly he reached for his twin swords that he had dropped when the orc's weapon had sliced his leg open. The beast now laid dead, blood still seeping from its throat. His right hand met the hilt of his sword and grasped it tightly. He couldn't find the other.

"Fíli, wait, let me bind that –"

"I'm fine," he grunted, ignoring the sharp pain as well as his brother's panicked look. "Thorin. Azog."

Somehow the wound robbed him of the ability to form coherent sentences, but he knew that Kíli would understand, how couldn't he? He pushed himself up, allowing Kíli to support him, and carefully he put pressure onto his right leg. Stars exploded before his eyes, but he bit his lip to not cry out from pain. He would get through this.

The reasonable part of him knew that he ought to get himself to the healers' tent, and quick, while he was still able to walk. He could go there, have the wound bound, and be back in no time.

Thorin cried out, and reason was wiped away by the fierce love that made his heart burst as he heard Kíli call out in fear next to him. Adrenaline took over, and his feet moved on their own accord towards the place where Thorin was lying on the ground with Azog looming above him.

"Get away from him!" Fíli roared, and he could hear Kíli's battle cry behind him. Thorin didn't move, and fear gripped Fíli's heart as he saw Azog raise his mace. Another orc jumped into his path, keeping the young dwarf from getting to his uncle, and Fíli brought his sword down on the creature with unrivalled fury. He knew Kíli was struggling against an orc on his own behind him, and all his instincts told him to turn around and protect him, but all he could see was his uncle. His king.

Fíli reached him with a few more long strides, each step making his leg throb despite the worry that almost drowned out everything else. Azog stepped back as he saw Fíli, an arrogant smile on his terrifying face, and for a moment the young dwarf wanted to follow him, but then he found himself falling to his knees next to his motionless uncle.

"Thorin!" he cried out in despair, feeling his heart grow cold as he took in the numerous wounds that covered the older one's body. Something was missing. Panic rose inside of him when he realised that the dwarf's chest wasn't moving.

"No, Thorin, no! Come on!"

But the black-haired dwarf didn't move, his eyes remained closed, and Fíli understood. He understood, yet he wanted to deny what his brain told him was true. He looked up and his gaze met Kíli's, and the younger one stared at the pair on the ground with shock and grief written all over his dirty face, and the pale orc laughed. The bastard _laughed_, and the few orcs that stood around them joined in his laughter, and Fíli's vision became tinged with red at the edges.

He scrambled to his feet, fingers clenched around his sword; his body was shaking with rage and sadness. One more time he looked down at the one who had raised him like his own son, and in that moment he swore to avenge him and all the pain the white orc had brought to the line of Durin. He could feel blood running down the side of his leg, his shoulder was on fire, but he would be strong, he would fight until his last breath.

_For my family. For my brother. For my king._

"You'll answer for this," he whispered as he looked at Azog, and the voice was icy cold, so unlike his own that it was almost frightening.

"You hear that, Moria scum?" he cried. "You'll answer for this!"

His voice broke at the last words, turning into a drenched sob, and he launched himself at the pale orc, sword raised above his head.

Azog had always been arrogant, and Fíli had always known that this was his weakness. The strongest warriors would fall if they deemed themselves immortal, and mighty kingdoms could crumble to dust if their kings believed them to last a thousand years and failed to notice the dangers ahead. Azog was no exception.

His arrogance was his weakness. He should have moved, but he was so self-assured that he underestimated the young dwarf, who he knew was wounded and grieving. He didn't know that dwarves were made of stone, and pain and grief hardened that stone and made them strong enough to move mountains.

Fíli's double-bladed sword slashed the pale orc, the blade almost vanishing completely in Azog's body, and the orc let out a horrible scream that made Fíli shiver. His hands shook, the effort of wielding the weapon against the huge enemy having drained him of all energy, but Azog staggered and that was all that mattered. The line of Durin would be avenged, and the Defiler would haunt his family no more.

But the pale orc didn't fall so easily. He made one last desperate attempt to defend himself, and he brought his mace forward at Fíli. It grazed his chainmail, and he stumbled, feeling the familiar sting as blood appeared as a thin line just underneath his collarbone.

_Not yet._

He cried out, from the corner of his blurry vision he could see Kíli rushing towards Azog beside him, and with a triumphant yell Fíli sunk his sword into Azog's stomach just as his brother aimed for the orc's thigh.

The ground shook as the pale orc fell, and Fíli's battle cry echoed in his ears as he buried his sword into the orc's heart.

The silence that followed was deafening.

For a moment the brothers just stood gazing down at the dead enemy, and none of them found the right words to say. Fíli's mind was in a haze, as if he couldn't quite believe that their arch enemy was actually dead, and he knew he ought to be glad but then his eyes fell onto his uncle.

"Thorin," he whispered, staggering towards the fallen dwarf, and as he came to a halt beside his body he felt Kíli's presence behind him. Tears burned in his eyes, and he wanted to kneel down and put his hand onto Thorin's chest and hear him speaking and feel him _breathing_, but he could see the shadowy figures creeping up behind the huge, motionless body of the pale orc. They were few in numbers, most of the orcs had fled when their leader fell, but those that returned were fierce and thirsty for blood.

Fíli wished he could just stay by his uncle and let the pain take over, let it wash away the survival instinct, this basic instinct that had always been flowing in his veins and made sure that he fought until his last breath. Giving up would be so easy. Painless.

But he was of the line of Durin, a son of kings, and he wouldn't bow.

_Not yet._

"I'm sorry, uncle," he mumbled hoarsely, and hastily he wiped away the tear that found its way down his blood-coated cheek. "I'm so sorry. I'll make this right."

It was a promise that he wasn't sure was his to give. But it was the only thing he could think of, and as he grabbed his sword he gritted his teeth against the pain radiating through his body and faced the orc that dared come close to his uncle's body.

He swung his sword with both hands, his vision fuzzy but for the distinct shapes of orcs, and he thought he could hear the screeching of birds and the growling of a bear, but it didn't make sense, no sense at all, and he wondered if he was going insane.

Did it even matter? It would end on that field, somehow he was certain about it. His body was betraying him with every sluggish movement, and he knew that it would end here for him – probably sooner than later. Though only a few orcs were left to fight him and his brother, Fíli realised that he should have listened to Kíli. He almost laughed out loud at the thought. For once in his life he should have listened to his reckless little brother, and now it was too late. He could feel the warm blood running down his thigh, and from time to time the images blurred before his eyes. He felt in a weird way sad, and in a moment of clarity he thought that he was truly sorry to die after all. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to leave this world, this wonderful world he had just really begun to discover, and an angry cry escaped his lips as he killed an orc with one powerful strike.

_I'm not ready to leave this world, you bastard. _

In that moment an agonised scream pierced the air, and Fíli's world shattered.

_And as the world comes to an end  
I'll be here to hold your hand  
'Cause you're my king and I'm your lionheart_

(Of Monsters and Men, "King and Lionheart")

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**A/N 1: I know a lot of people see this song as a Bagginshield song, but to me Fíli will always be the lionheart...**

**A/N 2: Next one will be... Dori. Ha so you thought Kíli? No, not yet. I want to give you time to stock up on the tissues.**

**A/N 3: "You hear that Moria scum? You'll answer for this!" That's from Dean O'Gorman's audition, and that short clip makes me cry every time. The way his voice cracks, the despair and fury in his eyes - he's such a brilliant actor!**


	12. Promise of dawn (Dori)

Wow, thank you all so much for your reviews for the last chapter! That was/is one of my favourites, and I can't tell you how glad I am that you liked it so much!

So, as I said, it's time for Dori now. It's a shorter chapter, but I hope you don't mind - the next one will be longer again.

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**12: Promise of dawn**

Dori's blade was black by the time he killed his fortieth orc. From then on he stopped counting. He took deep breaths in between powerful strikes against the enemies whose numbers never seemed to cease.

"Dori, to your right!"

He turned on the spot, and his axe met the neck of a rather thin orc who fell with a cry. The creature looked young, and for a brief moment Dori wondered if these creatures maybe, just maybe, cared about their youngest the same way as the dwarves did.

He panted heavily and threw his brother a grateful look. Nori merely grinned through a mask of dried blood on his face, then he swung his weapon at a gnarling warg that limped towards him in an attempt to spend its last breath taking as many dwarves with it as possible.

Dori allowed himself to scan the battle field before him. The moon was on its descent and only gave little light to illuminate the scenery below. Uncountable numbers of dwarves and men, and even elves, littered the ground, and he felt tears prickling behind his eyelids as he perceived their faces. Some he knew, others he had never seen before, but they were all dead and gone beyond the reach of their loved ones.

All of a sudden the air filled with strange screeches, and Dori's head shot up at the sound. He didn't need Nori's surprised call.

"The eagles! The eagles are coming!"

Indeed huge shadows came down from above, barely visible in the dim light shortly before sunrise. Dori heard the fear-filled cries of the orcs, and not far from him an eagle stooped low and dug its gigantic claws into the body of a warg that had crept up on the dead body of a man.

_Mahal be blessed, we might win this after all._

But the fight was far from over, and a frantic shout made Dori spin on his heels.

"Help! Dori, I need help!"

Immediately he rushed to his brother's side. The younger dwarf was kneeling, and Dori gagged when he saw the bodies of two elves on the ground. Their beautiful faces were smooth and pale, but as Dori took a closer look at one of them he learned that, no matter how different elves and dwarves were, they both bled the same colour.

"This one's breathing," said Nori hoarsely, pointing at the fair-haired elf who was lying close to his dead companion. He looked young even for an immortal being. "We need to get him to a healer – quick!"

Dori nodded and made to pick up the taller elven warrior. He gasped when in that moment an orc rose before him, its ugly face grimacing at the two dwarves and the wounded elf. An evil looking blade came down at Dori, and he dodged it rather ungracefully.

"You won't get me, scum!" he gnarled at the orc, but his heart dropped when out of the nothing more orcs appeared behind the first one. "Nori!"

The dwarf stood defensively above the unconscious elf, smiling grimly at his brother.

"Never thought I'd fight for the life of a pointy-ear!"

His grin faded when the first orc attacked him, and he hissed when the orcish sword slashed his armour at his upper arm. Dori growled angrily as he watched his brother getting injured, and the next strike was a powerful one, fuelled by fury and despair. It cleaved the orc's head cleanly off.

"They're too many!" yelled Nori breathlessly, and he was right.

"Where are those damned eagles when you need them?" Dori cursed.

He stepped backwards in order to escape the blade of his enemy, and there it happened. He stumbled over a dead body, and losing his footing he fell onto his back. His axe fell with a soundless thud, and faintly he heard his brother cry out in alarm, but his eyes were transfixed on the orc approaching him with a malicious smile on its face.

For some reason unbeknownst to him, Dori wasn't afraid. All he felt was sadness.

_I am so sorry, my brothers._

The orc was close, its weapon a silhouette against the dimlit sky, and all Dori could see was his youngest brother and all he heard were his last words. He had made a promise to return unscathed, and after all those years of looking after his beloved brother it was this one promise that he would have to break.

The cackling sound of orcish laughter filled the air, and it drowned out Nori's cries as the younger one fought against the orc that kept him from coming to his brother's side.

"Dori!"

The sickening sound of metal clashing against metal rang in Dori's ears, and he couldn't hear Nori anymore.

"Nori, no..." he whispered, and watched mesmerised as the orc brought its weapon down. He ought to move, if not for him then for Ori, but his body refused to fulfil his wish. Part of him was ready to meet his maker.

The other part closed his eyes in relief when the blade missed him.

The orc let out a gurgling sound, and when it fell to the ground Dori had a clear view on the one who had come to his rescue.

"Balin," he breathed, allowing the white-bearded dwarf to pull him to his feet. He clapped him on the back, and from the corner of his eye he saw Dwalin fighting like a berserk against two orcs at once. Nori was just scrambling to his feet and joined the fight.

"The elf!" shouted Dori, motioning towards the injured warrior. Dwalin stopped as another orc fell by his hand. "You stay here, I'll take him to the healers' tent, I'll be right back!"

He thought that he saw Dwalin's eyes widening in shock as he stared at Dori, but he dismissed the idea immediately.

Balin and Dwalin exchanged a quick look, and the tattooed dwarf gazed westward.

"Thorin."

Dori's stomach clenched when he heard the worry in his friend's voice. He hadn't seen Thorin for hours. He was glad when Balin put a hand onto his brother's broad shoulders.

"He'll be alright. We're needed here," he stated, just as Nori killed another orc with a massive stroke. More enemies kept coming, fear of the eagles maybe making them thirsty for blood as long as they still had the chance.

The grey-haired dwarf picked up the elf with ease. He shook his head in bemusement. The pointy-ears really were slender and light, even Ori was heavier.

"I'll be right back!" he repeated, and he didn't hear Dwalin's shouts as he sprinted across the battlefield, dodging two orcs that dared stand in his way. It wasn't so far, and he reached the flapping door of the tent soon. Nobody was there to guard the door, so he rushed inside.

"I need help!" he yelled loudly, and then he exhaled with relief when a figure appeared before him. "Óin!"

The old healer didn't seem to share his relief, in fact he suddenly wore the same look of shock as Dwalin had just minutes earlier. There was something about the way he looked at Dori that made the bulky warrior's heart grow cold. He barely noticed two humans taking the elf from his arms and carrying him away.

"Óin, what is it? Who's –"

But he couldn't ask that question. He didn't want to hear the answer. Images appeared before his inner eye, frightening images of dead bodies with familiar faces. Faces without a smile, without any colour, faces of those he loved and had sworn to protect.

Óin didn't speak, but instead turned his head a little, and when Dori followed his gaze he felt like the ground was crumbling beneath his feet.

"No."

It was the only word that left his lips, and it was that word he repeated over and over again as his fingers dug themselves into the white linen that covered his brother. One hand he laid onto the dwarf's chest, and the faint, yet steady rise and fall underneath his palm was the only thing that kept him from crying out.

_Look at me. Wake up. Please, brother._

Ori looked just as pale as the bed sheets, and Dori couldn't bear looking at the leg that was heavily bandaged and rested at an elevated position. Red shimmered through the white bandages, and the sight made him sick. A thin sheen of sweat was covering Ori's forehead, and the young dwarf moaned quietly in his unconscious state as Óin approached and put a wet cloth onto his face. Without speaking, Dori put his hand onto Óin's and took the cloth from him. The healer raised his eyebrows, but remained silent. He simply nodded.

Gently Dori wiped his little brother's forehead, from outside he could hear shouts and shrieks and cries, and he wished he had never left Ori behind. He knew what Óin's look had meant. He could already see the fever beginning to take over his baby brother, he had seen the effects of such severe injuries before. He knew that wounds like these, obtained in the dirt of a battle field, were prone to get infected. He knew all that, and still nothing mattered, because this was his brother, not a nameless dwarf, and Mahal knew he would tear down the entire mountain before he let anything happen to him.

But in the dim light of the tent, with the beds occupied by dozens of wounded warriors around him and the stench of disinfectants and death lingering in the air, he understood that it wasn't his decision.

_Mahal, I'm begging you. Let him live._

_It's always darkest just before the dawn.  
So stay awake with me, let's prove them wrong._

(Rise Against, "Make it stop (September's children)")

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**A/N 1: Before you ask - no, the fair-haired, young elf is not Legolas. ;)**

**A/N 2: Next chapter will be about Kíli. Don't say I didn't warn you.**


	13. Call of home (Kíli)

The dialogue will sound familiar to those who've read "Going home". And that alone should be a fair warning.

For ultimate feels experience I recommend listening to "The Breaking of the Fellowship" from the LotR - FOTR soundtrack, or "They did not die in vain" from the Skyrim: Elder Scrolls soundtrack.

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**13: Call of home**

Kíli saw the blade coming down on him, and he knew he ought to move, yet his body refused to function. He could hear the whooshing sound as the weapon fell down, he felt the metal tearing at his armour, and all the while he stood paralysed and watched for what seemed like minutes. He watched the orc burying his axe in his body, and in reality it couldn't have been more than the blink of an eye.

He never had a chance.

The blade bit its way through the light metal covering his torso, and he could feel it digging into him, just seconds before everything turned white.

Fire erupted in his stomach, a kind of agony that tore at his very bones and made him scream out so loud that his lungs burned just as fiercely as his insides. White hot metal rods were poking him where the orcish weapon had struck, and Kíli would have continued to scream if the pain hadn't taken his breath away. He gasped to find air for his burning lungs, and still the orc was standing before him, an evilly satisfied smirk on its face, axe raised to end what it had started seconds before.

In that moment, for the first time since the battle started to change all their lives forever, fear set in and mingled with the pain.

_I will die here. _

There was no consolation, no way out of it. He was about to die. The realisation made him choke, and his weakened body gave in to the fire inside of him. He felt the cold mud as he fell to his knees, and for a moment he thought that he ought to fight back. Get up. Get up and fight. But his body knew what his heart still refused to understand, and he dropped to the side, every movement sparking the flames again that made him cry out. Faintly he saw the orc looming above him, he watched as the creature suddenly fell with a soundless cry, and he drew a shuddering breath that sent waves of nausea to his mind.

Frantic shouts reached his ears, but he needed a moment to understand whom they belonged to.

"Kíli! Kíli, no! No, no, no!"

Fíli. Of course it would be Fíli, he thought, but while it was comforting in his state of fear and pain, part of him screamed and begged at his brother to stay away. He shouldn't ever see this, he should leave him and save himself, but no matter how much he wished for it no words left his mouth.

He remained silent, for in reality he was terrified, and the pain was tearing at his insides, and blood was seeping through between his fingers that he was pressing against the wound that would end his life on this field of horror.

Fíli's face was before him, and their gazes locked for a moment in which Kíli saw his own fear reflected in his brother's kind eyes. The older one laid his hand onto Kíli's, and there was something in his touch that seemed to suck away some of the pain, as if it was taken away with the blood that must now be staining Fíli's palms.

But the fire inside didn't die, the flames kept eating away his skin, and a strangled cry escaped his raw throat.

"It's going to be okay, you're going to be alright," said Fíli in a shaky voice, and he could feel him tugging at his hand. "Let me have a look."

But Kíli knew what he would find, he had known it ever since he'd heard the sickening crunch of breaking metal and skin being torn to shreds, ever since he'd felt the shards of the blade ripping through his stomach, relentlessly tearing him apart. He had known it the very moment the pain had made his vision go white.

And so, when Fíli tried to pry his hand away, Kíli shook his head. His eyes searched for his brother's, and a soundless "No" was all he could find in his shocked state.

_I will die here._

He could see Fíli's eyes widening in horrible understanding, and the choked cry that sounded so unlike his brother made Kíli wish that he had never become witness to this. To any of this.

The fear that took hold of his heart made him wish that Fíli would never leave.

"Stay... please," he managed to whisper. He hated how weak his voice sounded. He felt rather than saw Fíli pulling him a little closer, and his head came to rest in the older one's lap, where he felt Fíli softly pushing a strand of hair away from his forehead.

"I'm not going anywhere."

There was a kind of confidence in his brother's voice that made him feel warm inside despite the cold slowly creeping up on him. Fíli wouldn't leave him. And with his brother by his side he would be able to see through the nightmare.

But Fíli should never have ended up in this nightmare in the first place. By Mahal, he himself never should have come here, because then he wouldn't by dying, his brother wouldn't be crying, and Thorin would be alive.

Grief took hold of him with such intensity that it made him shudder, and before his inner eye the image of his uncle lying dead on the ground was clear and taunting.

So this was death.

It wasn't as in Bofur's songs and Balin's stories, where heroes died saving their kings and took a hundred of their enemies with them, leaving the world with meaningful words that became songs of their own. In reality, he could feel the cold sinking into his bones, if he turned his head just a little he would see his king, his mother's brother, dead and cold, and instead of wise words he could only speak of his shame.

"Thorin... he's dead, Fíli," he whispered, and now that he'd said it aloud it became true, and the meaning of his words hit him straight in the heart. He was dead. "I failed him."

Kíli hadn't wanted to say the last part, but the words had left his mouth without permission. He felt them on his tongue, and tears filled his eyes despite his desperate wish for them to stay away. He wouldn't cry. He wasn't allowed to cry, because he deserved this pain in his heart that hurt so much more than the wound deeper down.

"No, you didn't Kíli. You didn't. Please don't think that."

Fíli's voice was drenched with unshed tears, his words strained and hallow. They had no meaning for the black-haired dwarf, for they couldn't erase the guilt.

"Should have... should have protected him," Kíli gasped. "Should have been there."

"You were where you were supposed to be. You didn't fail him."

The words only slowly found their way to Kíli. There was something about them, about the confidence in his brother's voice, that made images appear before his eyes.

Fíli lying on the ground, blood pooling out of the wound in his leg, an orc raising its weapon above him, ready to kill his brother before his eyes. Black blood spurting out of the orc's slit throat, dead eyes staring up at him. Fíli hurting, but alive. Alive.

A small smile found its way to his lips. He hadn't saved his uncle. But Fíli would live. Kíli closed his eyes and exhaled quietly, and somehow the pain eased a little. He knew that it was the blood loss that made his body go numb, and that he ought to fight with whatever energy he had left to stay awake. But Fíli's hand on his hair and his mumbled words in his ears lured him into oblivion. He couldn't understand his brother's sentences, he didn't know if they made sense at all, but for once he didn't care.

A shiver racked him, and the movement sent waves of fire through his battered body. He cried out, and the moment of peace was gone. It hurt, oh Mahal, it _hurt_, and the blinding pain almost made his head burst.

So this was death.

No peaceful sleep, no heroic last stand, no swift ending. It was agony, and cold mud, and a brother left behind. The stories were lies, he realised, lies to take the fear away. But as he was lying on the cold ground, feeling his blood underneath his body and the fire tearing at his insides, with his head in his brother's lap, he wondered what other lies he'd been told.

What if the halls of Mandos were a lie? What if death was indeed just pain and fear, forever in his mind, forever to torture him?

In despair he grabbed his brother's hand, as if he could be his lifeline in that moment of falling.

"Fee?"

He needed his comfort, and he could feel Fíli squeezing his fingers, offering a last connection to the living.

"I'm here, Kíli. I'm here."

"I'm scared, Fee."

So this was death.

No bravery, no courage in the face of death. He was fading slowly, and he was utterly, _terribly_ scared. He felt tears prickling in his eyes, and he wished he could wipe them away. But his one hand was trying in vain to keep his life from abandoning him, securely held by his brother's own strong hand, and the fingers of the other were digging into the earthy ground in a desperate attempt to maintain his hold on this world he loved.

"Don't be scared, Kíli," he heard his brother say, and there was a softness in Fíli's voice that reminded him of his childhood days. "You're going home."

Fíli's voice cracked at the last words, but to Kíli they were comfort and safety.

Home. He saw his mother before him as he thought of Ered Luin, her beautiful face and her loving smile, the kind of smile that mothers give only to their children. Suddenly he felt the weight of a little stone in his pocket, and he choked as he remembered the promise he was now forced to break. Their mother had been proud of her sons when they'd left, and Kíli could still recall her last words before their departure.

_Stay safe, darling. Men lananubhuks menu, inudoyùl. _

And Kíli wondered if maybe, just maybe, they were all given a mother so that everyone could take into death the memory of a lullaby.

"Home," he whispered, and in a strange way the word made the pain abate a little. "Missed it."

"Yes, I miss it, too," replied Fíli quietly. "I miss the sun rising behind the Blue Mountains, the way the light finds its way through the clouds on a rainy day. I miss the noise that the river makes on its way through the stone."

He didn't need to look at his brother to know that he was smiling. Even here, after all the horrors they had seen, the thought of home miraculously erased a little bit of the madness and brought back memories of better days. Memories of childhood, of adventures, of worlds to be discovered and a place to come back to when the world was too big to handle for a dwarfling. Memories of growing up, learning of life and death and what's in between, and the promise of shelter when the world was crashing down.

"Wish I could see it again."

His words were but an almost inaudible whisper, and at first he thought that Fíli hadn't even heard him speaking. But the blonde startled and squeezed his hand lightly.

"What did you say, Kíli?"

"Wish I could... could see it again," he repeated quietly, every word straining his chest and making him groan under his breath.

So this was death.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't kind. It was painful, and sad. He would die on this field, so close to a home that he never knew, wishing he could go back to the home he loved. Part of him even wished he had never left it.

The bloodied hand covering his own reminded him that he would gladly do it again if only for his brother.

"You will see it again," said Fíli softly. "You will see it all, I promise. You will see our mother, and Thorin... you might see Tauriel again and eventually you will have all the time in the world to talk to them all."

"That sounds nice."

"Aye, it does."

He closed his eyes for a moment, and he saw them all before his inner eye. His heart yearned to see them, and while the thought of leaving had filled him with fear before, it suddenly felt in a strange way alright. Deep inside, he was ready. Yet there was something holding him back.

His eyes were dry, and still his face was getting wet, and it felt like the dried blood on his cheek, the dirt of the battlefield and the pain were being washed away. He could taste salt on his lips, and he opened his eyes and found blue, tear-filled eyes staring down on him.

Fíli. His wonderful, brave, big brother. His lifeline in all his storms, the one who led him through his darkest times and never let him down.

"You will be a great king," whispered Kíli hoarsely. He felt it important to say that. He would be strong, and just, and Kíli thought that although everything else had fallen apart around him, it was still worth it if only for his brother. He would find a home in Erebor, and the exiled dwarves would settle down again, and if only one dwarfling could live in the mountain in peace it might have been worth it all.

Fíli's shoulders were shaking, and silent tears were cascading down his face.

"A great king... like you've always been a great brother."

_I couldn't have asked for a better brother, not in a thousand years. _

Sobs escaped Fíli's chest, and Kíli felt his brother's hand squeezing his own tightly as if he could thus keep him from leaving. But it was like it had always been: the dying alone understood what the living refused to see.

"Don't cry," he muttered, and his gaze locked with Fíli's for a last time. "I'm going home."

His eyelids closed as his fingers let go of the earth and felt for the small stone hidden in his pocket. He could feel the engraved runes underneath his fingertips, and he listened to the call that tugged at his heart. A call of home, a promise of peace. Somewhere through the mist he felt Fíli's forehead touching his own, and he could hear him speaking, his voice muffled and already far away.

_Wait for me._

But just this time, Kíli would not wait.

He drifted into nothingness, and detached from the world he followed the call.

So this was death.

Going home.

_Your words are always there to break my fall  
In them I find the comfort to see through it all  
Guide me through unchartered waters  
Before we lose our way again  
Will you be my compass until forever,  
Until forever ends?_

(Rise Against, "Injection")

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**Sorry.**


	14. Within a mile of home (Dwalin)

Oh wow! Thank you all so much for your reviews for the previous chapter! I really needed that one to be right, and I was very nervous when I hit the "update" button. I'm sorry for the late update, I just really wanted to finish at leats one more chapter befor posting a new one.

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**14: Within a mile of home**

For the first time in hours, Dwalin calmed down.

Everything seemed to slow down around him as the warrior lowered his weapon, squinting against the first rays of the rising sun. He stared at the dead orc at his feet and at the blood on his hands, his hands that had wielded the axe for what seemed like forever, and in that moment he started to shake.

The battlefield had fallen strangely quiet, and he noticed that by some miracle only a few orcs were still standing. Wargs and orcs alike were lying dead, but so were dwarves and elves and men. Bodies littered the ground, and the earth was black with blood, making him choke as he scanned the area for familiar faces.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned his head to face his brother.

"It's over," Balin breathed. "It's over."

"It's not over. Not yet."

He didn't need to speak, for he knew his brother understood him without words. He needed to make sure that his friends were safe. The battle wouldn't be over until he knew they were alright. His heart clenched at the thought of Thorin fighting without him. He knew it was nonsense, that Thorin was a skilled warrior, perfectly capable of defending himself. He also knew that his nephews would not have left him. He was worrying for nothing.

His gut told him that something was wrong, and his instincts were usually right.

Silently the two dwarves marched in the direction where they had last seen their king. The ground was slick with mud and blood, and whenever Dwalin heard something crack beneath his boots he forbade himself to look down. They passed uncountable numbers of corpses, some so horribly mutilated that they didn't resemble a living being, others looking as if they were just sleeping, if it wasn't for the wide, dead eyes staring at the rising sun. From time to time the cries of wounded warriors could be heard, calling across the field, and then Dwalin and Balin would hesitate for a second, but never stopped.

_Where are you, Thorin? _

Dwalin became more and more frustrated, and he clenched his fists around the hilts of his axes. He ought to strap them on his back, because he would most likely not need them anytime soon, but he felt like he couldn't let go of them yet. They were a part of him, the only constant in that battle he had just miraculously survived, and the battle was not over anyway as long as his best friend was still missing.

Lost in thought, he bumped right into Balin.

"What –"

His words caught in his throat when he saw what his brother had spotted just seconds earlier. He recognised the huge, dark creature that came at them at full speed. He remembered the first time he had seen it, and how he had run for his life.

Now he simply stood where he was, and the enormous bear halted just inches before him. He looked even bigger than the last time, and blood and mud alike covered its flank and its massive paws. Dwalin hardly saw any of that.

All he really saw was the dark-haired, pale dwarf that the bear now laid gently onto the ground.

"Thorin," he whispered, kneeling down at his friend's side, almost scared to touch him.

"He is gravely injured, master dwarf," said Beorn with his deep voice. "I must not waste time."

Dwain stared at Thorin's still form, at the faint rise and fall of his chest and at the blood staining almost every part of his armour.

"Beorn," said Balin, "what about –"

But the skinchanger didn't answer. Instead he picked Thorin up again, and the way the king didn't even move a muscle made Dwalin's heart grow cold. He watched Beorn leave, vacant eyes following the figure, and he flinched when Balin once more laid his hand onto his arm.

"We cannot help him, brother," he spoke, his voice laden with grief. "We need to find the lads."

The tattooed dwarf nodded, trying to ignore the sinking feeling that made his heart heavy. They would be fine. He had taught them well, and right now Kíli was probably boasting with his killings in front of three elf maids, and Fíli would be laughing to himself, and –

_They wouldn't have left Thorin alone with Beorn if they were alright._

He tried desperately to shut out the voice in his head, and when his efforts proved to be in vain he shouted loudly for his friends, as if he could thus drown out the sneering voice that snickered at him and told him that he was lying to himself.

"Fíli! Kíli!"

His cries dissolved in the thin air above the battlefield. They were taken away by the carrionbirds and mingled with the groans of the dying.

"Dwalin."

Just one word. Only his name. And yet Dwalin felt his world falling to pieces beneath his feet at the sound of his brother's voice. It was hallow and empty, and at the same time filled with pain and despair. It was the kind of tone that made him go cold and numb, that made him want to close his eyes and escape to better times.

But in reality there was no escaping the sight before him.

At first he could only see the still form of the large, pale orc, and that of his son lying not far from him. Azog and Bolg, united in death, defeated at last – it was a sight that should have filled him with happiness. But no joy filled his heart this time.

"Mahal, no," he whispered, his own voice broken and so unlike his usual tone that he could as well have been a stranger in this place of horror. Mechanically his feet found their way to where they were lying, and he sensed Balin walking right behind him. He didn't dare to turn around. Facing his brother and seeing the expression in his eyes would make it true. And Durin knew it couldn't be true.

His knees hit the soft ground, and carefully he laid a shaking hand onto the bloodied chainmail covering his prince's shoulder. It was here that the arrow had struck, back when he had first felt the iron grip of fear tearing at his heart. Gently he put a finger onto the side of the young dwarf's neck.

Nothing.

He choked as he took in the numerous wounds covering the dwarf's body, and he felt hot tears prickling his eyes when he noticed the position in which he was kneeling.

"Not even in death," he mumbled, and to his horror Dwalin felt his lower lip beginning to tremble. "Never separated, not even in death. Oh, Fíli."

He gazed down at the blonde prince, and his eyes fell onto Fíli's hand that was entangled with his brother's.

A sigh made him look up, and only then he noticed that his Balin had gotten to his knees beside Thorin's nephews, too. A single tear was running down his face, leaving a pale trail in the dirt on his cheek before it got lost in his singed beard.

"Kíli, my lad. My brave, brave lad."

Dwalin tried his best to not look at the dark pool of blood that had dried underneath the archer's body, nor at the grisly wound that his hand couldn't cover completely. Instead he focused on Kíli's young face, on his closed eyes and on his lips curled to a subliminal smile.

_One smile in this nightmare of broken cries and soundless screams._

Everything seemed to slow down around him, the noises were suddenly muted as if a cloud of mist was hanging only around him, his brother, and the two young warriors whom he had guided through all their lives. He knew he ought to say something, do something, _anything_, but he remained in his rigid state of shock, with one hand on Fíli's cold shoulder and the other clenched tightly around the hilt of his axe. Fury rose inside of him, making him start to shake, only slightly at first, until his whole body shook with unrepressed anger. He was vaguely aware of his brother calling him softly by his name, but it didn't matter. All that mattered now were the young dead dwarves whom he had sworn to protect, and their uncle who could be just as dead for all he knew, and the fact that he had failed miserably at performing the only duty he'd ever known.

He looked up, and in the distance he could see the shape of the Lonely Mountain illuminated by the rays of the rising sun. The mountain stood huge against the grey sky, and it its shadow the hundreds of dead were barely visible, tiny against the overwhelming size of the mountain. And as Dwalin's gaze wandered his eyes came to rest once more on the lifeless forms of Azog and Bolg. He remembered everything – Azog killing Thrór, Azog nearly defeating Thorin, Bolg shooting Kíli and thus sending both of Dís' sons into a nightmare. Everything flashed before his eyes, and part of him wanted nothing more than to bury his axes in the orcs' bodies. He wanted to punish them for all the pain they had brought to the line of Durin, avenge everything that had happened to those he loved – but despite the fury raging inside, he remained where he was, with one hand on Fíli's shoulder and one on his axe.

Because no matter what he did, it wouldn't change the fact that he had been too late. So close to their new home he had failed them when they had needed him the most, and here he was, alive and almost unscathed but for the deep cut that rendered his heart in two. How it was still beating he had no idea. It surely felt like it was held together by a thread, barely strong enough to keep him alive, and he wondered how long it would take until it would break for good.

"Dwalin?" His head shot up, and his eyes finally met his brother's. Balin's kind eyes were dark with grief, and the bald dwarf noticed suddenly just how old the white-bearded dwarf looked. They had both become old, had probably aged more during the last hours than during all their years in Ered Luin. There was an unspoken question in Balin's eyes, and Dwalin took a deep breath. He opened his mouth, only to find his throat restricted for a moment.

"Aye," he whispered in a raspy voice. "Let's bring them home."

_So many dreams were broken and so much was sacrificed  
Was it worth the ones we loved and had to leave behind?_

(Within Temptation, "Hand of Sorrow")

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**A/N 1: "Within a mile of home" is a great song by Flogging Molly. **

**A/N 2: Next one will be about Bofur and Glóin.**


	15. Those left behind (Bofur, Glóin)

Thank you all so much for the great reviews for the last chapter! We'll come back to Dwalin soon, I promise! This is kind of a filler chapter, I hope you still like it.

By the way, have you seen the New Zealand Airlines safety video? Check it out, it's incredible!

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**15: Those left behind **

So much death. Bofur heard the victorious cries of his comrades as the eagles drove the last orcs away from the battle field, and watched as a few elves pursued them, and he felt the rays of light prickling on his face. The sun had risen again after all, just like every other day, as if nothing had happened.

But so much had happened, and the toymaker asked himself how he could ever pick up the pieces of his life as he knew it when such terrible things had come to pass.

He walked silently next to his brother, with Glóin on his other side. He wondered where the rest of the company was. The rational part of him told him that one or two were most likely dead. It was a terrifying thought, one that he shouldn't even allow to ender his mind. It wasn't like him to be pessimistic, yet he couldn't help these dark thoughts. Deep down, in that moment, he realised that he had lost more than just his axe on the battlefield.

They reached the healers' tent after a while. It took them longer than expected to get there, mainly because they stopped to help the wounded they passed on the way. By the time they got to the tent, Glóin and Bombur were supporting a dwarf of Dáin's army, who was limping with one arm on each of their shoulders. A man was walking with them as well, cradling his left hand in his right. Blood seeped through the makeshift bandage, which was a piece of cloth ripped from Glóin's tunic, whenever the stranger tried to move his fingers. He didn't speak, but kept glancing left and right, probably searching for his friends.

_Where is everyone?_

When they approached the tents they found that they were not the only ones who had chosen that meeting point. Hundreds of warriors of all races were assembled there, some standing in small groups, others sitting hunched on the ground, watching the crowd with tired eyes. They led both the injured dwarf and the man to the tent entrance, when suddenly a call rang in Bofur's ears.

"Bombur! Bofur! Glóin!"

Bofur recognised the voice immediately, and he smiled for the first time in hours.

"Nori."

The thief greeted them, although he couldn't quite hide the worry in his usually mischievous eyes. He was pale, and blood was faintly visible on his face, as if he had just hastily tried to wipe it away, but hadn't been thorough enough.

"What about the others?" asked Bombur, and Bofur held his breath when Nori's face fell.

"Balin and Dwalin were alright the last time I saw them. They went to search for Thorin and the lads."

"What do you mean – has nobody seen them?" asked Glóin aghast.

"Not since Thorin went after Azog," replied Nori. "Dwalin tried, but –"

He paused, and Bofur could see him choking down the lump in his throat. Something was wrong.

"What is it?"

"Dwalin, he... he tried to get after him. That's when he met Ori."

"Ori?" echoed Bombur, his eyes widening in horror. "But he was supposed to stay in the tent!"

"He was, yes. But he didn't stay. He went out there, and he got hurt, and Dwalin got him back here."

He spoke matter-of-facty, but his voice was hoarse and his eyes vacant, as if his mind was wandering somewhere else.

"Why in Durin's name would he leave the tent?" asked Glóin, and when Bofur remembered the terrible things he'd seen, he asked himself the same question. He looked at Nori, and the dwarf bit his lip and lowered his head. When he looked back up at the other dwarves, his eyes were shining suspiciously.

"We hope to find that out when he wakes."

He emphasised the word _when_, and Bofur noticed him clenching his fist as he spoke. He stepped forward and laid a hand onto his friend's shoulder.

"He'll be alright. He may not look like one, but he's as much a fighter as any of us."

Nori nodded, and for a moment he turned his head and gazed at the tent.

"Dori will have his hide if he doesn't wake," he said with a forced grin, and the corners of Bofur's mouth twitched.

"Nori, what of Bifur?" asked Bombur, his voice suddenly strained with worry. Bofur's stomach clenched when he counted the group of dwarves in his head.

Thorin, Kíli and Fíli were missing. Balin and Dwalin had gone after them. Oín, Dori and Ori were inside the tent, and then there were the four of them outside.

He stared at Bombur in disbelief and shame. How could they have forgotten their cousin?

"I'm sorry," said Nori, and he really seemed to mean it. "I don't even remember the last time I saw him."

The two brothers exchanged a quick glance.

"We'll search for him," announced Bofur, squaring his shoulders. "We'll find him."

_He's fine. I'd never forgive myself if he wasn't._

_There will be a time to crack another smile  
Maybe not today or for awhile  
But we're holding on to laugh again some day_

(Rise Against, "Tragedy & Time")

Glóin watched the brothers walk away, and he wondered how many more were still out there searching for those they loved. He didn't dare think about how many families had been torn apart in the battle, and subconsciously he felt for the picture in his pocket. Then he remembered that he had given it to Óin.

He needed to see his wife and son, never before had he needed them more than now. Part of him was glad that they were far away, out of danger, but the other part of him wished desperately to have them by his side.

He made to turn and go inside the tent, when he heard several people gasp and shout. He looked up, and his eyes, too, widened.

"Be-Beorn?" stuttered Nori, and just in that moment the huge bear transformed before their eyes, which even increased the cries of fear and wonder. It was only when the skinchanger stood before them in his human form that Glóin's eyes fell onto the bundle that he'd been carrying. Tiny and barely recognisable against the gigantic shape of the bear it had been, but now Glóin recognised that it was in fact a dwarf. And not just any dwarf.

"Thorin," he whispered, and beside him Nori groaned quietly.

"He is gravely wounded," said Beorn wearily. "He needs a healer."

"And a wizard."

"Gandalf!" exclaimed Nori, and indeed the grey-haired wizard had chosen that moment to appear behind them. His arm was in a sling, but he paid it no attention as he kneeled down next to Thorin. Glóin choked as he perceived the wounds that covered his king's body. There didn't seem to be a square inch of armour that wasn't covered in blood. It was a miracle that he was breathing, and no surprise that he was unconscious.

"Bring him into a tent, and make sure he gets a corner for himself!" Gandalf commanded. "He's the king, and he deserves to be treated as one."

Nori and Glóin obliged, and carefully they carried their leader into the largest tent. An elf awaited them, and with a quick glance at the dark-haired dwarf he led them to a secluded corner that was separated from the rest of the tent by thick, woollen curtains.

"Lay him down on the bed," said the elf, and for the first time in his life Glóin simply followed an elf's order. There was a time and a place for arguing, but that was not it. Gently he and Nori laid their king down, and Glóin tried his best to not look at the horrible wound covering Thorin's side.

_He's truly made of stone if he could survive this._

"Thank you," said Gandalf to nobody in particular, already kneeling at Thorin's side, and the elf nodded and retreated immediately. The two dwarves remained where they were, though, insecure about whether or not they were needed.

"Fetch Óin, please, and keep this part of the tent free from visitors, will you?" ordered the wizard while he ran a wrinkled hand down Thorin's left arm. "I don't need any distraction. See if you can be of help."

"Aye," replied Glóin and Nori in unison, bowing slightly before they, too, left the tent. Óin was already bustling around and immediately left behind the woollen curtain. The two dwarves headed for the flapping door, eager to get some fresh air. The air in the tent was thick, and at the same time reeking of blood and desinfectants.

"Let's get – ow!"

Glóin groaned as someone bumped into him. It was a dwarf who had obviously not seen him in his hurry to get the wounded dwarf he was carrying to the healers.

"Out of my way!" the silver-haired dwarf called. "I need help, please! Help me!"

He cried on the top of his voice, while he let the injoured one slide to the ground. There was a striking resemblance between the two dwarves, the unhurt one looking much older that the other, though. He was shaking the younger one, and even when two healers approached he refused to let go.

"No, please, he needs me! Help him, please, oh Mahal, help him!"

The healer looked pointedly at Glóin, and the red-bearded dwarf understood. Not too gently he pulled the unknown dwarf away from the wounded, cursing under his breath when he fought against the arms restraining him.

"Let me see him! I need to... please!"

"Shh, calm down, he'll be fine," Glóin spoke softly, watching the healers tending to the younger dwarf. "He'll be fine."

But in that moment one of the healers looked up and his eyes met Glóin's. He didn't need to speak. The expression in his eyes gave him away, and by the way the silver-bearded dwarf gasped Glóin knew that he had seen it as well.

"No!" yelled the dwarf, fighting even harder against Glóin's iron grip. "No, no, please..."

The healer laid one hand onto the dwarf's shaking shoulders and shook his head sadly.

"I am so sorry. He was already dead, there's nothing we could have done."

"That's a lie! He's not – no! No, you're lying, do something, please, please..."

The dwarf broke down, held up only by Glóin, and shivers racked the dwarf's body as uncontrolled sobs escaped his chest. Tears ran down his face, and in his despair he turned around, grabbed the sleeve of Glóin's tunic and buried his face against his chest. Glóin patted his back rather helplessly, mumbling soothing words that didn't seem to reach the dwarf.

"My son... my only son..."

Glóin's heart grew cold all of a sudden, and he found himself pulling the stranger closer. He could feel the wetness that stemmed from the dwarf's tears, and at any other time he would have felt uncomfortable allowing a random stranger to be so close to him. He was a dwarf, after all, and dwarves kept their emotions to themselves. That was what made them strong.

But today, just today, Glóin didn't mind being weak.

_I need to see my family. _

He was hardly aware of another dwarf approaching him, and flinched when suddenly the stranger was pulled from him.

"Daran, my friend. I'm so sorry."

Glóin watched as the dwarf named Daran left, being carried more than led away by his friend, and he finally felt exhaustion overpower him. He turned his head and found that Nori had left. He knew he ought to get outside, too, but there was something he needed more.

He knew he shouldn't disturb the wizard. But he couldn't wait. Carefully he pulled the curtain aside that separated Thorin from the rest of the group. Nobody noticed him first, which gave Glóin the chance to take a closer look at his king. He didn't like what he saw.

He sighed involuntarily, and at the noise Gandalf looked up from his work.

"I told you to stay outside, didn't I?" he bellowed much more harshly than usual.

"I- I'm sorry," stammered Glóin, suddenly feeling much like a reprimanded child. "But I need something from my brother."

When he spoke Óin turned around. There was a kind of sadness in his eyes that reminded Glóin of the incident just moments earlier, and a knot formed in his stomach.

"How is he?" he asked cautiously.

"He shows signs of wakening, but..." He hesitated and closed his eyes for a split second. "But it doesn't look good. It really doesn't look good."

The healer's voice was strained, and when he reached out to Glóin his hand was shaking slightly. To Glóin's surprise he felt the cool metal of the picture frame in his palm, and the ghost of a smile found its way onto his face as he nodded at his older brother.

"Thank you," he mouthed, before he turned around and left the tent. He clenched his fingers around the picture, and only when he stepped into the sunlight he took a deep breath. The air was much fresher, and he let it fill him, as if he could thus forget the awful stench and the ringing sounds of death.

He sat down next to Nori, and together they scanned the area for familiar faces. Some dwarves they recognised, but of the company of Thorin none could be seen.

"Move over, will you?"

The voice startled Nori and Glóin alike, but the former jumped to his feet immediately.

"Dori!" He stood frozen for a moment, and Glóin knew that he tried to read his brother's expression. The bulky dwarf looked pale, with unnaturally red-rimmed eyes that now rested on his brother. "How is he?"

"He hasn't woken yet," he said, "but the healer sent me away nonetheless. Said he couldn't work with me fussing all the time. The cheek of it, eh?"

He obviously tried to sound optimistic, but he couldn't fool anyone, least of all his brother. Nori exhaled audibly. He moved forwards as if he wanted to hug the older one, but stalled at the last moment.

"He will wake, Dori. He will. He's a fighter."

"We're all fighters! All of us!" came a voice from behind, and everyone turned around.

"Bofur!" cried Nori, and Glóin noticed the dwarf walking in between Bofur and Bombur. He was the same old dwarf, yet something was different.

"Bifur, your... your axe!"

And indeed, there was something different. The axe was gone, replaced by a thick bandage covering half of Bifur's head.

"What happened?" asked Glóin, and to his utter surprise Bifur grinned broadly.

"Find the orc scum, give back what is his."

Everyone stared wide-eyed at their friend. Glóin could hardly remember the last time he'd heard Bifur speak Common. Ever since an orc had embedded its axe in his head, the warrior had spoken Khuzdul and communicated by Iglishmêk. Hearing him speak in the common tongue, albeit with difficulties, made not only Glóin smile.

_Mircales do happen, then._

"Well, you could have told us where you were off to," said Bofur with a hint of reproach in his voice, though the twinkle in his eyes told everyone that he was just happy to have his cousin back. "Anyway, what of Thorin? And Kíli and Fíli?"

He looked at them expectantly, and suddenly the warm, fuzzy feeling of happiness vanished into thin air. Glóin remembered his brother's words, but he couldn't tell his friends.

"Thorin is gravely wounded," Nori spoke heavily. "Gandalf and Óin are tending to him as we speak."

"And the lads –" Glóin started, but stopped mid-sentence. His heartbeat stopped when he saw the two figures approaching, his friends who he would recognise anywhere. He took in the strange silhouettes, each dwarf carrying another one as they walked slowly towards the group.

Someone gasped, he thought it was Bofur, but he didn't look at him. His eyes were transfixed on the figures until they stood before him, he saw the pale face of Balin and the stony face of Dwalin as they laid the boys down, and he stared with unblinking eyes at the dead faces of their youngest group members.

It was a nightmare, it had to be, and he waited for the two warriors to ask for healers, but they simply stood there and didn't speak, and then Glóin knew. He _knew_, and everyone else knew, but nobody seemed to be able to grasp the impossible.

Tears were running down Bofur's face, and when Bombur approached him the toymaker buried his face against his shoulder. Glóin could see him shaking, and he watched Bifur standing next to his cousins, one hand on each of their forearms. Nori sniffed and wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

"They shouldn't lie here," said Dori, his voice raspy and grief-stricken. "We should bring the lads inside."

Glóin understood what he meant. He wasn't speaking of the tent. Fíli and Kíli were Thorin's nephews, the princes under the mountain, and there was just one place to lay them to rest.

Nobody spoke as they left the place. Dori was carrying Kíli, and Dwalin had refused to let anyone else carry Fíli, and thus they walked, Dori and Dwalin at the front, followed by Balin and Nori and himself, and he knew that Bofur, Bifur and Bombur were walking behind them. Through the mist that seemed to surround him he heard the gasps and cries of many dwarves they passed, but their voices didn't quite reach him. He didn't want to hear them, he didn't want to see them, because if he couldn't see them, they couldn't see him either.

Suddenly he heard a familiar voice behind him, and that voice he couldn't shut out. It was a song, a doleful melody that struck his very core, a song so unlike any other song Bofur had ever sung, and the words found their way through to him and pierced his heart.

He could always pretent that nobody noticed his tears.

_My old friend, this song's for you  
Cause a few simple verses  
Was the least that I could do  
To tell the world that you were here  
Cause the love and the laughter  
Will live on long after  
All of the sadness and the tears  
We'll meet again, my old friend_

(Tim McGraw, "My old friend")

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**A/N 1: I got the idea for Bifur's story from an interview with William Kircher, the actor who plays Bifur. He said that he thinks Bifur is on a kind of personal mission (adding to the quest to reclaim Erebor), because he wants to give the axe in his head back to the orc that gave it to him. I loved the idea, so I needed to include this. And I think that Bifur would hae some difficulties with "Common grammar", that's why he speaks like that. **

**A/N 2: I've finished chapter 18 on my computer, so I guess that story will have 20 chapters at least, which would make it my second longest story on here, yay!**

**A/N 3: TNext one will be Thorin...  
**


	16. In the end (Thorin)

Thank you all so much for your reviews for the last chapter. It's really good to know that you enjoy the "non-Durin chapters" as well. I was in full-on writing mode during the weekend, so here's the next chapter for you. The chapter title is, of course, a song by Linkin Park. _I tried so hard and got so far, but in the end it doesn't even matter. I had to fall, to lose it all, but in the end it doesn't even matter._ Yay, bring on the Durin feels.

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**16: In the end **

Pain. It was the first thing he became aware of, long before he heard the quiet voices around him or felt the gentle touch of a familiar hand on his shoulder. It consumed his body, he could feel every bone and every vein, every limb screaming when he tried to move.

Groaning, he reached out his hand. His fingers touched something soft and warm, and he realised that he was lying on a bed. It was nothing like the icy cold mud on the battlefield, the cold creeping up on him as his life slowly seeped out of his body with every drop of blood that mingled with the blood that already soaked the ground. There was no screaming where he was lying now, no cries and frantic shouts.

Here, it was nice and warm and comfortable. But something wasn't right.

He was tired, oh so tired, and the pain was still there, reminding him that although he had escaped death on the field, he was still held tightly by its relentless hands. Part of him thought that it might even be an option. But still there was a stubborn voice inside of him that forbade him to think of that, because he was the King under the Mountain, a dwarf of the line of Durin, and he wouldn't be weak.

_The line of Durin._

Agonising pain suddenly erupted in his head, making stars explode before his eyes, and his stomach clenched and made him retch. Faintly he could hear the shuffling of feet and a worried, somehow familiar voice. He felt a hand on his shoulder as he leant to the side and heaved heavily, emptying what little remains his stomach had to offer onto the formerly clean ground.

Tears prickled in his eyes as he sank back against the pillow, his body still tense and hurting beyond measure. Something was so very, _very_ wrong.

"Thorin? Thorin, can you hear me?"

He nodded weakly and pried his eyes open, only to blink a few times when the light blinded his eyes. He noticed that he was inside a tent, and the dwarf before him was Óin.

"Óin," he croaked, "what –"

"Sh, lie still. You aren't well." The old healer gave him a sad look. "Beorn brought you in. Please, Thorin, whatever happens, don't strain yourself."

"What do you mean? Óin?" He hated the weakness of his voice. "Óin, that battle... did we..."

He didn't dare finishing the question.

Óin's lips curled up in a soft smile. But Thorin had known his friend for many decades. It was a fake smile that didn't reach the healer's eyes.

"We won the battle. A few orcs are still on the run, as I have been told, but the majority is dead."

_Dead._

The memories came back with such intensity that he couldn't breathe.

Images of dead bodies, of dying soldiers, dwarves and men and elves, crying, screaming, falling. Dying. The body of a pale orc, a maniacal laughter the last thing he heard before pain consumed him and his world went black. A familiar voice somewhere far beyond his reach, begging him to stay, before it turned away. An agonised scream finding its way through to his very consciousness, a scream of fear and despair. A cry that tugged at his heart and forced him to fight his way out of the mist, to open his eyes just when a huge, horrible creature with gentle eyes picked him up. The pain of his body being replaced by a much deeper, more terrible pain when his eyes perceived the bodies on the floor next to the massive form of his old enemy, the forms getting smaller in the distance with every giant leap the creature took, but still engraving themselves in his mind. The willingness to succumb to the merciful darkness suddenly greater than the urge to resist it.

He gasped for air, but his chest was tightened as if iron bars were pressing relentlessy against his ribs, and his stomach clenched once more, sending waves of fire through his battered body. A choked cry escaped his lips as he struggled to sit upright, and Óin's face blurred before his eyes as he grasped his sleeve with one hand.

"Calm down, Thorin, calm down! Breathe, Thorin, come on... Gandalf!"

Several people appeared in the tent, but were pushed away by the wizard as he came rushing inside. Thorin didn't see him clearly, although he would recognise the voice anywhere.

"Let me look at him!" he commanded, and then the dwarven king felt a hand on his forehead and a weird, somehow warm sensation that ran through his body. Suddenly he took a shuddering gasp and, with a soft groan, fell back against the cushions.

Gandalf's face appeared before him. He looked old, much older than the last time he'd seen him. The weariness in his eyes had intensified dramatically ever since he'd first met the wizard in Bree. It seemed so long ago now – a lifetime.

So much had come to pass ever since, so many paths he'd walked, and all had led him to that moment. To his doom.

The pain from his wounds had subsided, and he knew Gandalf had something to do with it, but the other pain was hurting more than ever. It was closing in on him, eating him alive, and he wanted to scream and yet felt like he couldn't say a word, because deep down he knew he deserved this.

"I can't take that pain away," said Gandalf quietly, as if he could read his mind. "I can make your wounds hurt less, but I'm afraid I cannot heal you. I am sorry, my friend."

"Sorry?" Thorin echoed bitterly, and he snorted through gritted teeth. "I don't deserve your apologies, Gandalf, not when it's me who must apologise for... for all that," he finished for lack of a better word.

Gandalf eyed him carefully. Thorin noticed that the dwarves had left the tent, even Óin. He wondered where his companions were. A single syllable echoed in his head, a constant drum beating in tune with his stubborn heart that still clung to life like a drowning man to a rope in the storm.

_Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead._

"So much death," he whispered, his voice sounding broken and frighteningly defeated. "I failed them, Gandalf. I sent them to their deaths. My friends... and my so- my sistersons."

He could see them clearly, and he blinked furiously to erase the images, but they wouldn't go away. A brunette and a blonde, inseparable until their last breaths, lying in the grass where their blood had mingled with the mud, tiny snowflakes landing on their already cold bodies, one hand grasping the other in the last moments of life. Two souls, once vibrant with life, now forever still and cold and gone. He had tried so hard to keep them safe, to watch over them, but in the end none of that mattered.

"They're dead, Gandalf. I failed them."

Every word made his heart explode with pain, hitting him like a hammer brought down onto red glowing metal on an anvil. It radiated through him, just one thought repeating itself again and again in his mind, so unreal and still a fact.

"They are gone. They are gone."

Gandalf didn't say anything for a while, but eyed Thorin wearily. He thought that he could see his old eyes shimmering slightly, and he closed his own eyes in return, trying in vain to escape this nightmare and wake up to a better reality.

"You didn't fail them, Thorin Oakenshield."

He flinched at the wizard's words. They were a lie, he knew that, a lie to lure him away from the darkness.

"They died because of me. I didn't listen, I was blind, I was –"

A shiver racked his body as he started to cough, and a wave of pain shook him so forcefully that his vision went black for a moment. His insides knotted and unknotted themselves, making him feel as if silver tongs were pulling at every organ they could get a hold on. He was faintly aware of Gandalf murmuring indecipherable words as he curled his fingers around the blanket, for it was pure agony that made him cry out while somewhere deep in the back of his mind the little voice sneered again.

_You deserve this. _

"They didn't die because of you. None of them did." Slowly Gandalf's words found their way through to his mind, just as the pain abated a little and he took a shuddering breath.

"But Fíli and Kíli... I saw them. I saw them, Gandalf, I saw them fighting, and don't tell me they weren't there because of me."

"I won't. Of course they were there for you, Thorin. Because they loved you. Because they believed that there was something good, something worth fighting for."

Thorin grimaced and bit his lip.

"They were mad at me, Fíli especially, and by Mahal, they were right. I didn't deserve their sacrifice, so how could they –"

"They forgave you, did they not?" asked Gandalf quietly, interrupting him as he spoke. Thorin wondered, not for the first time, how Gandalf always seemed to _know_ things.

_I forgive you._

He could hear the words clearly, as if Fíli was standing right beside him. But he wasn't there, and that was what mattered. What was forgiveness and love compared to the shame and guilt that suffocated him?

"You know they did, Thorin. They forgave you a long time ago. You must forgive yourself now."

Thorin wondered whether Gandalf expected him to answer. He didn't know what to say, because no words could ever be enough to tell how he was feeling. He had failed, again, he had tried so hard and had yet lost again. He had broken another promise, one that he should never have given in the first place.

_Promise me you'll keep them safe. – I promise._

His eyes started to burn, adding to the fire eating him from the inside, and he couldn't look the wizard in the eye.

"My sister will mourn again," he mumbled, clenching his fists as he saw her face before him, her kind, dark eyes that had always reminded him of Frerin. "She has lost everyone, and it's all my fault. Tell me Gandalf: how am I supposed to forgive myself?"

The grey-haired man gazed at him for a while, as if he knew what he wanted to say but was insecure whether it would be wise to speak. Thorin wished he would say something, _anything_, because he felt, deep down, that the wizard didn't have much time. His body was still putting up a fight, but from time to time the world swam before his eyes, and his mind lured him into the sweet, all-forgiving nothingness. It would be so easy.

He could almost feel Dwalin backhanding him across the face. Giving up was never an option, no matter what life threw at you.

Dwalin.

He wouldn't see him again, he realised, not in this world. Oh, how they had joked about who would go first! They had always known that they would find their ends in battle, but somehow the thought had never occurred to them that they wouldn't be at each other's side. They had thought of ridiculous last words, of the most absurd ways to die, and of how they'd have a whole barrel of ale waiting for them at the halls of Mandos.

It wasn't a joke now.

And he didn't even dare to think of what his ancestors would say should he meet them behind the closed doors of Mandos. He would have to face them then, his father and grandfather, his brother, his nephews. He choked down the lump that formed in his throat.

"You think that it was all in vain now, don't you?"

He flinched when he heard Gandalf's voice. He didn't reply, mainly because he knew that the wizard didn't expect an answer.

"But Erebor has been reclaimed, Thorin. It has been reclaimed because you were brave and strong, and because your people loved you enough to follow you. They love you still, and you gave them hope in return. Hope to see their home rebuilt, hope for a better future, for a life not in exile, but free and proud. I know that right now you only see death, but there is also life. You see heartache, but there is also strength. And I have a feeling that the importance of your quest will eventually prove to be beyond the scope of your imagination. Things have been set in motion that will change the fate of us all, and someday we will look back on these days and smile, because good things are never done in vain."

His short monologue was followed by a long silence, during which Thorin tried to understand his old friend's mysterious words. Gandalf loved to speak in riddles, and he was tired of it. He was tired of everything. Somewhere in the back of his mind he started to wonder if Gandalf had maybe kept his true intentions from him all the time, ever since their first chance meeting in Bree. He remembered the day, the dimly lit pub, the smell of ale and food, the laughter of men and hobbits.

Bilbo.

He gasped suddenly, feeling his stomach churning in an uncomfortably familiar way.

"The halfling!" he cried, grabbing Gandalf's arm as he struggled to sit up in his bed. "Gandalf, what of Bilbo?"

His cheeks burned with shame when he remembered the last time he'd seen the hobbit. He had cast him away, and it was just one more item on the list of things he had done wrong. Oh, Bilbo had been right all along! Yet he had almost killed him, him who had saved his life so many times and proven himself ten times over during the quest.

"I have a notion that our dear Bilbo is quite alright," said Gandalf with a barely visible smile. He eyed Thorin curiously. "Why do you ask, Thorin? Could it be that you care about him after all?"

"Of course I do, how could I not?" He closed his eyes for a split second when a wave of dizziness washed over him, but he regretted it immediately. He could clearly see Bilbo's face before him, the look of sheer terror and fear in his eyes, and he fought down the bile rising in his stomach. "There are many things that I've done wrong, Gandalf. If there's just one chance to make anything right, I need to take it."

_I need forgiveness, because I can find none myself._

Gandald nodded. He left without a further word, leaving the wounded king alone. He almost expected Óin to bustle in through the make-shift door, but no one came. Apart from hushed voices and muffled groans from beyond the curtain, there was nothing but silence. It made his mind drift to unwanted places, and it allowed images to resurface that he wished so badly to forget. To his horror he felt tears assembling in the corners of his eyes, which he wiped away hastily so that no one would see them. He was a dwarf, a king, and dwarven kings never cried.

But he was no king.

And for the first time the thought occurred to him that this might be good. He had done all he could, but he had made mistakes that could not be undone. Gandalf's words echoed in his head, making him wonder if something good had come out of his failure after all. He would never know, he realised. But maybe it would be enough to redeem himself once he met his fathers.

He flinched when the woollen curtain was cast aside and Gandalf strode in.

"I have brought him."

Thorin barely saw him, his eyes being set on the small figure walking behind him. For the briefest of moments the memories of Bilbo's betrayal, of his own anger, and of his hand shaking the Halfling flashed before his eyes, but he shook his head and took a deep, painful breath. He reached out his hand as Bilbo approached the bed.

"Farewell, good thief," he spoke with a strained voice. "I go now to the halls of waiting to sit beside my fathers until the world is renewed. Since I leave now all gold and silver, and go where it is of little worth, I wish to part in friendship from you, and I would take back my words and deeds at the gate."

He watched Bilbo's eyes widening at his words, he could see the kindness and sorrow reflected in his irises, and he suddenly found himself praying. Praying that Bilbo would accept his apology, because he somehow knew that he wouldn't find rest without knowing that his wrongs would be forgiven, if not forgotten.

The hobbit knelt down and took Thorin's hand in his own.

"Farewell, King under the Mountain," he said, and his voice was firm but for the slightest of quivers at the first word. "This is a bitter adventure, if it must end so, and not a mountain of gold can amend it. Yet I am glad that I have shared in your perils – that has been more than any Baggins deserves."

"No! There is more in you of good than you know, child of the kindly West." Thorin found himself smiling as he remembered the day he had knocked on the door of the hobbit hole. He had often doubted Bilbo, but he had always seen right into the heart of the small person, and had found much that he valued there. "Some courage and some wisdom, blended in measure."

Now that he looked back on the past year, he understood that Bilbo had most probably been the wisest of the company, the only one who had always only followed his heart instead of letting greed and prejudice poison it. He squeezed the hobbit's hand, and the next words he spoke came from somewhere deep within.

"If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world. But sad or merry, I must leave it now. Farewell, Bilbo, my friend."

He could see Bilbo's eyes glistening, and his own clouded as they locked with his friend's for the last time before the hobbit turned away. His heart felt lighter somehow, as if an iron collar had been molten at last, and he thought that though he had certainly done some wrong in his life, he might have done something good, too.

Thorin sighed deeply. To his surprise, the pain that had consumed him had finally abated. He flinched when he felt Gandalf's hand on his arm. The wizard eyed him fondly, the ghost of a smile on his old face reminding Thorin of their first meeting.

"It was good fortune that made our paths cross in Bree," Thorin whispered. It was hard to speak with his body going numb, but he still had something to say. "A chance meeting, some will say."

"It wasn't just pure chance," said Gandalf with a wink.

"Aye, I thought so." He coughed twice, and with every breath he took his throat constricted more, as if his body didn't want him to fight any longer. "What comes out of it, I will not see. I can only trust you that somehow, someday, all this will have been worth it."

He could see them waiting, greeting him in the wide hall. He was ready.

"I will leave you now. May Mahal's hammer always shield you, my old friend."

He took one last breath, and as he exhaled he closed his eyes. The darkness began to close in on him, and the last words he heard hardly found their way through the mist.

"Farewell, Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain. Farewell."

_When my time comes  
Forget the wrong that I've done  
Help me leave behind some  
Reasons to be missed_

(Linkin Park, "Leave out all the rest")

* * *

**A/N 1: The dialogue with Bilbo is taken from the book. "If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world." - one of my favourite Tolkien quotes. I just had to include this.**

**A/N 2: **

_**"Yet things might have gone far otherwise and far worse. When you think of the Battle of Pelennor, do not forget the battles in Dale and the valor of Durin's Folk. Think of what might have been. Dragon-fire and savage swords in Eriador, night in Rivendell. There might be no Queen in Gondor. We might now hope to return from the victory here to ruin and ash. But that has been adverted — because I met Thorin Oakenshield one evening on the edge of spring in Bree. A chance-meeting, as we say in Middle-earth."**_

**(LotR, RotK, Appendices)**

**I loved that passage in the appendices, because I think that many people - especially those who only know the movies - don't quite understand the importance of Thorin's quest. It wasn't just about reclaiming a mountain and finding a treasure. It was about securing a part of Middle-earth and getting rid of a potential ally of Sauron, and about making new bonds of friendship between dwarves and men (and elves, although I doubt that there could ever be real friendship between dwarves and elves, with Gimli being the exception, of course), which would many years later make them stand side by side at the battle in Dale.  
**


	17. Memories remain (Balin)

Today is All Saints' Day (which is a holiday where I live), and one of the memories of my childhood that I have of my (very religious) grandparents is us going to the cemetery, where my grandparents would light candles at the graves of old friends and tell us about their past. So what better day to post this chapter than today?

* * *

**17: Memories remain**

It seemed just like yesterday. Yesterday Balin had watched over Dís' children when their mother and uncle had gone to visit their relatives in the Iron Hills and hadn't been able to take the lads because of their young age. Yesterday he had watched Dwalin demonstrating his skills with axe and sword, and chuckled to himself about the eager look in the dwarflings' eyes. Yesterday he had tucked them in and told them a bedtime story about brave warriors and fierce dragons and treasures beneath the rocks.

He remembered them clearly, the two brothers who looked so different but had always been two pieces of one soul. He could still see them lying side by side, Fíli with one arm curled protectively around his baby brother, Kíli with his usually wide brown eyes dropping closed as the story came to an end, and he could see himself draping the large blanket over their tiny bodies. He had smiled at Dwalin that day.

Today his hand was shaking, and Dwalin's face was stony and white as they carefully covered the boys with plain, white sheets. He couldn't look at their faces, so he focused on other things. On the quiver that Glóin placed next to Kíli's still body. On the three arrows that Bofur had taken out of the quiver and laid out as perfect, parallel lines. On Fíli's double-bladed sword that was still black with blood. He tried to not think about how ridiculously symbolic it was that his second sword was missing, ripped from him on the battlefield just like his brother. He put his hand into his pocket and felt the stone he had taken from Kíli's hand. The boy had grasped it tightly even in death, and for a moment Balin had hesitated to take it. But he knew who had given it to the young dwarf, and he needed to return it to her.

He wanted to leave. But somehow he knew that his nightmare wasn't over yet. It was strange, he thought, to be so sure about something so terrible. He desperately wished to be wrong, that his mind was playing tricks on him.

"Balin?" He startled and found himself eye to eye with Glóin. "Balin, we should leave. See if there's any news on Thorin – or Ori," he added after a glance at Dori and Nori.

"We can't just leave them here," rejected Balin. "Someone has to stay and watch over them."

_I should never have stopped watching over them in the first place._

"We'll close the door, and we'll soon return. But now..."

Glóin didn't finish his sentence, but Balin understood him all the same. Priorities. The dead were dead, as plain as that. He nodded, and after one last look at the two young dwarves lying peacefully side by side he followed his friend. He didn't turn around when he heard the door being closed.

They walked slowly back to the tents, and nobody spoke. The air was eerily quiet, and after all the noises of battle that had filled his ears for hours, the silence now sent a shiver down Balin's spine. He shuddered involuntarily. His brother looked at him and opened his mouth as if to say something, but then hushed and averted his eyes. Only now Balin noticed the trail of dried blood on the side of Dwalin's head. He wondered how he could have missed it before. He was the older brother, after all, and he was supposed to take care of his younger sibling.

The image of Fíli's fingers entwined with the bloodied ones of his little brother flashed before his eyes, and Balin suddenly found it hard to breathe. He was glad when they reached the tents and everyone else was distracted for a moment, so that nobody witnessed him wiping his burning eyes quickly. It was just a short moment, though, for as the group approached the healers' tent, Balin didn't need to hear Bofur's cry to recognise the figure sitting on a log not too far from the largest tent.

"Bilbo!"

Relief flooded Balin as he saw the hobbit. He felt a little ashamed now, because he had entirely forgotten about him during the battle. Seeing him now, alive and apparently unhurt, made him smile for the first time in hours.

"Bilbo, thank the Valar you're safe!" shouted Bofur with glee, for a moment being his old, light-hearted self, and he ran towards his friend and pulled him into a close hug. It was the way that Bilbo didn't say a word that told Balin that something was wrong.

Something was very, _very_ wrong.

Bofur let go of Bilbo as if he had noticed it, too, and kept him at an arm's distance to look closely at him. The hobbit's face was pale, and red-rimmed eyes told the dwarves that he had been crying. With a sinking heart Balin realised that his gut had been right all along.

"It's Thorin, isn't it?" he asked quietly, and everyone turned to stare at him. He could sense Dwalin boring his eyes into him, willing him to not speak further, but his own gaze was set on the hobbit. Moments passed like days before Bilbo, hesitantly and with shaking hands, nodded.

"He's dying," he choked. "He's dying, and Fíli and Kíli are... they are..."

He couldn't speak further as fresh tears sprang to his eyes.

"No."

The single syllable was barely audible to anyone but Balin. His brother never sounded like that, he _shouldn't_ sound like that, he thought. So broken and defeated. The white-bearded dwarf reached out his hand to lay it onto the younger one's arm, but the warrior pulled away and sprinted towards the tent door.

Balin hardly noticed the other dwarves. He got a glimpse of Bofur pulling Bilbo close once more, though this time with tears in his eyes; he saw Dori and Nori standing shoulder to shoulder, staring disbelievingly at Bilbo; he thought he caught Glóin mopping his eyes with his beard. Nothing of that mattered, though.

_Thorin is dying. Oh Mahal, how can you be so cruel?_

Quickly he followed his brother, scared of what he might find behind the walls of the tent. He had faced many enemies that day, he had looked death in the eye, he had witnessed horrors that had always been beyond his imagination. But everything seemed insignificant compared to what he had gone through during the last hour.

The inside of the tent was dark compared to the light outside. Immediately Balin's eyes were drawn to a woollen curtain in a corner, in front of which Gandalf was standing side by side with Óin. Dwalin didn't seem to see them as he sprinted towards the makeshift door, and almost bumped into the wizard's outstretched hand.

"Wait."

The bald warrior skidded to a halt, and Balin stopped right behind him.

"Let me pass," growled Dwalin. "That stubborn old dwarf won't die on my watch!"

He glared at the wizard and Balin noticed how his brother's hand was feeling for the hilt of his axe. It was an instinctive movement rather than a real attempt to threaten the wizard, Balin knew that for sure, just as Gandalf himself – still it was a sight that made his heart clench. He could see the fear in his younger brother's eyes as if he was looking into a mirror. He had watched Dwalin all the time since they had first met Beorn, he had witnessed his desperate attempt to keep his strong posture when they'd found Thorin's nephews, and more than anything he'd noticed the guilt in the warrior's eyes.

Gandalf stepped forward. To Balin's horror his eyes were shiny from unshed tears, and the older dwarf understood.

_Too late. Too late._

"I am sorry," the wizard said quietly as he bowed his head. "The king is dead."

The two brothers just stared in disbelief at him for a moment. Óin lowered his head. For a brief moment it seemed like he wanted to say something, but then he just walked away, murmuring something into his beard that Balin couldn't understand. It didn't matter anyway.

A stubborn voice inside his head tried to convince Balin that Gandalf was wrong. He had to be lying, it couldn't be true. Thorin would never just go like that. He was a king, and kings weren't supposed to die behind woollen curtains and without their friends at their side. Thorin was destined to die on the battlefield, and he had made it back.

But the sensible part of Balin had always been the stronger one. It was that part that had made him Thorin's counsellor, and that had made him stand up to his friend. It seemed so long ago, Balin thought, but in reality it had been mere days.

He glanced at his brother, and suddenly he knew that Gandalf was not lying. He knew it just by looking at his brother, at his limp shoulders, at his shaking hand that seemed unable to carry his axe while the other hand was curled to a fist, and most of all by looking at his face. Within a couple of seconds his expression changed from disbelief to understanding, to denial and grief, to shock and despair and forlornness. It reminded Balin painfully of the day they'd lost their father.

Now it was another battle, and another kind of loss. He wondered how much grief a dwarf could deal with before the numbness set in, the kind of emptiness that filled you forever and made you only a ghost of who you were before.

Carefully Balin laid his hand onto his brother's shoulder. He could feel the younger one flinch at his touch.

"Shall we... you know."

_Say goodbye._

But Dwalin shook his head. He avoided his brother's look and turned around.

"Dwalin, brother, please –"

"Don't, Balin."

The tattooed dwarf walked away, each step heavy and nothing like his usual determined stride. The dwarves and men that were assembled in the greater part of the tent, be it as healers or as visitors to the wounded, parted as Dwalin went past them. Nobody stopped him or spoke a word. Balin followed him with his eyes, mainly out of worry, but also because it gave him time. Time to prepare himself for what was before him.

To his surprise Dwalin didn't head for the flapping door of the tent. Instead he went to a bed in the corner, fetched a stool and sat down. Balin couldn't recognise the one in the bed from the distance, but he had very good idea of who it might be. He bit his lip as he remembered Dwalin's pale face as they had met again after their brief separation. He had immediately spotted the red blood on his armour, but when he'd asked his brother about it he'd only said one word.

_Ori. By Aulë, let him live._

He didn't dare think about how it would break his brother if the young dwarf died.

"Balin?"

He needed a moment to notice Gandalf's voice. He faced the wizard and sighed. He was scared. It was ridiculous, he thought, to be afraid of a dead person. The dead were dead, they couldn't harm you.

"Take your time, Balin."

Faintly he felt Gandalf squeezing his shoulder, before the wizard, too, went away and left Balin alone. The curtain was before him, and all it would take was one step.

He felt in a strange way weak when he pulled the curtain aside. He opened it just wide enough for him to fit through, then closed it quickly behind himself. He didn't want anyone to see him.

His gaze fell onto the bed that occupied the secluded corner, and suddenly he found it hard to breathe. It was real. There was no more pretending, no more desperate wishing.

"Oh Thorin," he whispered as he approached the lifeless form of his friend. Hesitantly he touched the dwarf's hand as he kneeled down beside him. His skin was already cold, and the way he was lying there, covered with numerous wounds, his face pale underneath the remains of dirt, reminded Balin painfully of how he'd found Kíli.

"I'm sure you and the lads will wreak havoc over there, won't you?" he said and forced himself to smile. "Maybe my old father will get to look after you now in Mandos' halls. Because that's what we do, right? We look out for each other."

His throat restricted and he couldn't speak further, so instead he grabbed a piece of cloth from a table. Gently he wiped the dirt and grime off Thorin's face. Óin must have done it before, but not thoroughly enough for Balin's liking. He frowned when he remembered that Óin had most likely been occupied with more urgent deeds.

"I'm sorry that I wasn't there, Thorin. Word can't say just how much I wish to be able to go back. But then again, who knows what would come out of it? We have won the battle, Thorin. Because of you Erebor has been reclaimed, and soon the exiled dwarves will come home. I wish you could be there to see it, Thorin."

He wiped his eyes with his sleeve as he remembered that fateful day many decades ago. He could still feel the heat of dragonfire, he could hear the screams of fear and pain, and he could see the seemingly endless tracks of dwarves wandering through barren lands in search of a new home.

"We're home, Thorin. Your sister will find a home here."

Dís. Somehow he knew that he would be the one telling her everything. Of course he could send someone else, but deep down he was certain that it was his job, not least of all because of the small stone hidden in his pocket.

"Do you remember the day when we went out hunting? We were just lads then, young and foolish and reckless – well, maybe some more so than others," he grinned, seeing the mischievous smiles on Thorin's and Dwalin's faces clearly before his inner eye. "We were supposed to stay out for just a few hours, but my dear brother had brought that bottle of wine and somehow we ended up in the middle of the forest, sitting by a fire, singing drunken lullabies to Frerin. How you could have taken him with us is still beyond me, the poor lad was way too young to carry all our bags. And the stories you and Dwalin told him about lads and lasses, oh Mahal, I don't think I've ever seen a more embarrassed dwarfling than Frerin!"

Balin laughed quietly to himself. It was a wonderful memory of better times.

"And that's where your sister found us, worried sick when you didn't get home! And furious she was, standing there with her hands on her hips and giving out on you so that the whole forest could hear her. She reached only to your shoulder then, but Durin knows you shrunk before her that day."

He smiled and gently brushed a strand of hair from his friend's face.

"Good times, my friend. We've been through so much, you and I."

He wanted to say a lot more, but he found that he couldn't speak anymore. So he simply stayed for a while and let his mind wander to the past, and to the future that was still to come. He could see himself as a young dwarf, he could see himself fighting alongside Thorin, and when he closed his eyes the images of unknown young dwarves running wild in the green plains before Erebor appeared before his inner eye. They would grow up in the Lonely Mountain and they would live in a time of peace.

He bowed his head and pressed his forehead against Thorin's for the briefest of moments.

"Thank you, my friend. My king. Thank you – for everything."

_Times were tough, but the memories remain  
Situations rough, but we overcame.  
Side by side, one for all,  
Together we grew  
Cause when it's said and done,  
I'll look back on friends like you_

(Dropkick Murphys, "Memories remain")

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**A/N 1: Next one will have Dwalin and Dori!**

**A/N 2: I think I know when to end this fic... I guess there'll be four or five chapters to!**


	18. Let him live (Dwalin, Dori)

Alright, I hope this chapter makes you smile a little! (A tiny little bit, at least...)

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**18: Let him live **

There was something hypnotising about the steady rise and fall of Ori's chest. Dwalin gazed at the blanket as it moved, comparing the movement with his own heartbeat. Ori's was a little fast, and slightly irregular, but he was breathing and that was what mattered.

If only the young dwarf woke up.

After the constant action of battle, simply sitting and waiting drove Dwalin nearly insane. It wasn't even his place to be. Ori's brothers ought to be there in his stead, whereas he should be behind the woollen curtain and say goodbye.

And he was bloody scared, which was why he stayed where he was and prayed that Mahal wouldn't be so cruel and take yet another life from the world. He had seen enough death to last the rest of his life. Everytime he took his eyes off Ori he immediately saw Kíli and Fíli, daring and brave and dead and gone, forever united in death. He shook his head, only for the picture to be replaced by Thorin, pale and covered in blood as he was carried by Beorn, a lifeless figure mocking him for being too late, a lifeless figure that now was waiting for him behind the curtain.

"But you'll live," he whispered and laid a calloused hand onto Ori's frail body. Even through the blanket he could feel the heat radiating off his skin. He frowned and fetched the wet clot from the bucket next to the bed. Gently he wiped Ori's forehead and smiled sadly when the young dwarf flinched, but remained in his unconscious state.

"Please, Ori. Please wake up. Durin knowns we could all do with some good news."

It wasn't like him to beg. He was usually the one giving commands, the one to shout orders on the battlefield or training ground. And normally, nobody dared to disobey. Even the most troublesome dwarves would follow his orders, knowing that he never demanded anything his pupils couldn't give. Sometimes they'd think that he was asking too much, but through the years Dwalin had developed the skill to see the strength in every dwarf he met.

Ori was strong, stronger than he himself might think. The fact that he had thrown himself into the madness of war for his brothers was proof enough. He was strong and brave and loyal, and Mahal forbid he would have to pay for that.

_He's no warrior. But he's a fighter._

He clung to these thoughts, as if he could will Ori to get better just by repeating the words in his head. For some reason still unbeknownst to him, there was nothing more important in that moment than the young dwarf's recovery. Dwalin's sanity was already hanging by a thread, a thread thinned by the loss of his friends and the overwhelming guilt. Deep down he knew that losing another friend would break him.

"You can't die," he said quietly. "It would all have been in vain."

Suddenly he heard footsteps behind him. He didn't need to turn around, nor would he have needed to hear the voice, to know whom they belonged to.

"Any change?"

"None."

He couldn't look at his brother. He knew what he would find. He would look at his own reflection, at his own grief and pain, he would see what he wasn't yet ready to face. He cringed when Balin laid a hand onto his shoulder.

"Dwalin, brother –"

"No." It came out too harsh, and he regretted it immediately. "No, Balin, I won't. Not yet."

He hoped that his brother would understand.

_I'm not ready. I'm not sure I ever will be._

"Aye, I know. I just wanted to let you know that I'll be outside to talk to some people. Dáin, most of all. And Gandalf."

Dáin. Of course he would be king now. It was something Dwalin had never thought about, because he'd always assumed that in the unlikely event of Thorin's death Fíli would take the crown. And what a great king he would have been, he thought. It was enough to make his heart clench again, for Fíli would never be king, dead and gone as he was lying next to his brother.

He sensed that his brother wanted to say more, but was hesitating. It was then that he turned his head and finally looked at him.

"What is there you need to tell me?"

"Dwalin, I... I need to ride to Ered Luin. Soon."

For a moment Dwalin just stared at him. He took in his red-rimmed eyes, his singed beard, his pale face. There was no way his older brother would take off for a trip through half of Middle-earth. Especially not since he had just made sure he was safe.

"Before you reject, Dwalin, think of Dís. Of all those who stayed behind, for that matter. They deserve to be informed. And Dís will want to attend the funeral."

Balin's voice broke a little at the last word. It made Dwalin feel cold inside, and part of him wanted to stand up and pull his brother close and tell him to stay. But something kept him where he was.

"Alright," he simply said instead and nodded at Balin. "Tell me when you're leaving."

With that he focused on Ori again. He listened to his brother's footsteps as he walked away. Ori hadn't even moved during their conversation, although Dwalin thought, as he put his hand onto the younger one's forehead again, that his fever had abated if only a little.

"Mahal, please, let him live," he mumbled. "He's just a boy, for Durin's sake. Haven't we all given enough? Haven't we lost enough?"

He could hear the despair in his own voice, a subliminal tremor that wasn't like him at all. It scared him to feel like that. So weak, and helpless, and lost. He rested his elbows on the side of the bed and buried his face in his hands.

_Let him live. Let him live. Let him live._

"Dw- Dwalin?"

He didn't look up. He was afraid of finding that the voice was just an illusion. It would be most cruel of his mind to play such tricks on him, but he'd learned by now that life was cruel, as plain as that.

"Dwalin? What are you... my brothers, are they..."

The voice was tired and weak, but there was something about it that made Dwalin uncover his eyes. Carefully he opened them, and found himself staring right at the scribe of the company. From the corner of his eyes he saw Óin approaching. He flinched when Ori grabbed his arm with much more force than he would have expected from him.

"Dwalin! My brothers –"

"Oh, they're very much alive. And so are you." He let out a shaky laugh as he squeezed Ori's lower arm. "So are you."

He was still smiling when Óin reached the bed and patted his back before he tended to Ori. It was only when he was standing before the curtain that the smile faded.

_I used to think that I was strong  
Until the day it all went wrong  
I think I need a miracle to make it through_

(Simple Plan, "Perfect world")

Dori startled when he heard the sound of the flapping door of the healers' tent. But it was only Balin. He sighed and tried his best to not let his worry show too much. The rest of the company – the few that were left outside the tent – were quiet. Gandalf's words still echoed in Dori's head, and he hadn't yet fully grasped their meaning.

_Thorin Oakenshield is dead. _

It was too surreal, he thought. He realised that somehow, to him, Thorin had always seemed invincible. Stone giants, wargs, a dragon – he had defeated them all, and more than that, he had made sure that his people were safe. The thought that he would never again brandish his sword and make fear creep into his enemies' bones was something Dori couldn't quite believe.

But one look at Balin told him that he ought to accept the truth. The older dwarf looked weary, and as he came nearer it became clear that he had been crying. Dori tried to not look at him. For some reason, he felt ashamed. It was only when he looked at his brother instead that he understood why.

Everyone was looking devastated. Bofur was sitting on the cold ground staring straight ahead onto the nothingness of the battlefield, while a single tear was running down his face. Bombur had sat down next to him and put a hand onto his little brother's shoulder. Bifur and Glóin were talking quietly, and just as Dori watched them he could see Glóin showing his little framed pictures to the former toymaker. Even from the distance Dori could see Glóin's eyes glistening. Bilbo had gone for a walk, or so he had said, even before Gandalf had come out of the tent.

He ought to be grieving for Thorin just like them. But if he was true to himself he had to admit that he didn't have the energy to care. What really mattered, more than kings and jewels and the fate of Erebor, was the one dwarf inside the tent who was still fighting.

He wished he could ask Balin about his brother, but he knew that the white-bearded dwarf had different matters on his mind as he approached the group. Balin looked at each of them.

"I take it Gandalf has already told you?"

"He has," answered Glóin with a heavy voice. "What now, Balin? What are we supposed to do?"

Everyone turned to look at Balin. The elder dwarf had always been the wise one of the company, the one to look at for advice and counselling. Right now, though, it seemed to Dori that Balin himself was at a loss.

"I will need to speak to Gandalf, and more importantly to Dáin. And then I will gather a party of dwarves to accompany me to Ered Luin."

Nobody spoke for a while. Of course Dori knew why Balin wanted to return to their hometown, and he didn't envy him for what he had ahead of him. The journey would be the easier part – telling a mother that her sons had died was something entirely different. Dori would rather face ten Smaugs at once than deliver that message.

Suddenly Glóin stepped forward.

"I would like to come with you, Balin. I need to see my family."

There was a kind of haunted look in his eyes as he spoke, as if he was remembering something terrible in that moment. Dori noticed that his knuckles were white from grasping the silver booklet so tightly.

Balin smiled a little and laid a hand onto Glóin's upper arm.

"Thank you." He sighed and looked around at all of them. "I'll let you know when we plan to leave. Now I must find Dáin."

With that he left, and Dori found himself staring at the tent door again. So the healer had ordered him to go away, but that had been hours ago. He needed to see if he was getting better, the waiting for news was driving him insane, and one look at Nori told him that his brother was feeling the same way. Just as he decided to throw caution to the winds and fight his way through an army of scalpel wielding healers if necessary, Bofur got up from where he was sitting.

"I'll leave you, too," he said, determination and sadness both mirrored on his usually joyous face. "I can't just sit here. It's not right. They... they shouldn't be alone."

His voice quivered slightly as he spoke, and he was evidently relieved when Bifur immediately nodded.

"Yes. I go with you."

"As will I," added Bombur. The bulky dwarf turned towards Dori and Nori. "You stay here and watch out for your brother," he said warmly. "Durin knows family should stick together."

With everything that had happened during the last hours, with all the families having been torn apart, Dori felt like Bombur had never spoken a truer word.

"Dori! Nori!"

He froze for a moment. He had waited so long for news, but now that he heard Óin's voice he was scared. His heart beat wildly in his chest, and he could feel his insides knotting and unknotting themselves as he slowly turned around.

The healer came running towards them, and for one second Dori felt like falling. A turmoil of emotions made his head spin. What if Óin told him that his brother was dead? What if he had left him alone when he had needed him most? What if –

"Your brother is awake."

Four words. He heard Nori's broken squeal, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Only four words, but to Dori they meant everything. Nothing else mattered; he just sprinted towards the tent, almost knocking Óin over as he passed him. He came to a halt at the bedside he had left earlier, but this time he found a pair of tired, but undoubtedly open eyes greeting him.

His breath caught in his throat. Suddenly he couldn't speak, so he just sat down carefully on the edge of the bed and took Ori's hand in his own.

"Hey brother," said the young dwarf quietly, then smiled at someone behind Dori's back who had to be Nori.

"Good to see you awake," mumbled Nori, failing dramatically at hiding his emotions. "How do you feel?"

"Óin gave me something for the pain, but he said my fever is going down."

It wasn't an actual answer to Nori's question, Dori noticed, but he decided to leave it be for now.

"You gave us quite a scare, Ori." Dori wondered when exactly his voice had become so raspy and shaky. "What were you thinking, laddie?"

He regretted the question immediately, inwardly slapping himself for his lack of tact. That would have been Nori's part, after all.

Ori gazed at him with sad eyes.

"I'm sorry, Dori. It was stupid. Reckless. Kíli will love it, I guess," he grinned weakly.

For one blissful second Dori thought that his face wouldn't show the effect that the name had on him. But whether it was the colour draining off his face, or Nori's sharp intake of breath, somehow Ori seemed to realise immediately that his joke had gone awfully wrong.

"What is it?" he asked, his eyes widening the longer his brothers remained silent. "What – no. No, don't tell me... no."

He grabbed Dori's arm tightly with surprising strength. He looked pleadingly at Dori, and the older one wished desperately that he could just keep the truth from him. He didn't deserve this, not his little brother, who had been so innocent and naive when they'd left their home, and who had seen so much evil ever since.

A shadow fell onto Ori. Nori had sat down on the other side of the bed, and he cast down his eyes as he spoke.

"They are dead, Ori. Kíli, Fíli, and Thorin."

Dori felt a lump forming in his throat, and he choked hard as he watched the tears silently running down his little brother's pale cheeks. Without saying a word he pulled the young dwarf close, feeling his small shoulders shaking underneath his hands.

He didn't know how much time passed until eventually Ori's sobs subsided, and he laid back against the mattress. Gently Dori covered him with a blanket and pushed a strand of hair from Ori's forehead. He bit his lip as he saw the tear streaks on his brother's face. Just when he wanted to get up Ori suddenly opened his eyes once more and grabbed his wrist.

"You asked me why," he whispered. "Why I went outside."

"Ori, brother, please. That can wait. It's unimportant, really -"

"I needed to know you were safe. No one had seen you, and everytime they brought someone in I feared it was one of you, and I just... I couldn't do it. Just wait and pray that the next dwarf to die before the healers even got the chance to treat his wounds wouldn't be one of you. I couldn't. And I'm sorry."

His voice was barely audible in the end, but every word tore at Dori's heart.

"Don't apologise, my brother. Don't you dare."

He wanted to say more, but he noticed that Ori's eyes were closed again.

"Sleep, nadadith," he whispered. "Rest. It'll all be better when you wake up."

He and Nori remained at Ori's side, and after a while the sound of quiet snoring filled the air. The two brothers looked at each other, and miraculously Dori found himself smiling just as the corners of Nori's mouth twitched.

And he thought that maybe, just maybe, they would eventually even be able to laugh again.

_And when they see you crack a smile  
And you decide to stay a while  
You'll be ready then, to laugh again_

(Rise Against, "Tragedy & Time")

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**A/N 1: This chapter, and the title in particular, was inspired by the song "Bring him home" from Les Misérables.**

**A/N 2: The next chapter will be about Bofur!** **(I know you want to hear about Dwalin... be patient ;))**


	19. Better days (Bofur)

Again, I can't thank you enough for your reviews! Uni has been a pain in the you-know this week, so your feedback definitely cheered me up!

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**19: Better days **

It was dark inside the crypt. The only light was that of the candles, which made flickering shadows dance on the cold stone walls. It was hard to imagine that outside these walls the sun was shining, standing already high on the sky as if nothing had happened ever since its last rising.

Bofur was glad that his brother and cousin had joined him. It had been an impulse to go back to the hall, and he knew that he wouldn't have been able to even step over the threshold alone. But it was the right place to be, he decided. He needed to be away from the healers' tents for a while, away from the wounded and dying and grieving. The dead were silent, and silence was what the toymaker needed.

The three brothers stood side by side and didn't speak. Bofur watched the dancing shadows on the wall, taking deep breaths as he tried to calm down. Everything he had seen during the last hours was whirling inside his head, a whirlwind of emotions making his head spin. There was the nameless dwarf who had died before his eyes, and the black blood spurting from a dying orc's throat, and there were screams and cries and fear and horror.

He closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. When he opened his eyes again he found that he had made a mistake. He shouldn't have moved his head.

But now his gaze was set on the still form on the stone pedestal, and he couldn't avert his eyes. From where he was standing he could only see the white, thin blanket, but as he shifted his gaze just a little he recognised the quiver, bow and arrows next to the figure.

He started to shake suddenly, cold seeped into his bones as he tried to keep his posture. He felt a hand on his shoulder, an unexpected source of comfort that he hadn't known he needed, and he took a deep breath.

"Have I told you about the time Kíli almost shot me in the head?"

Bofur had spoken rather quietly, but still his voice broke through the silence, and the words reverberated from the walls, went back and forth until they dissolved into air. Bombur chuckled quietly, and Bofur didn't need to look at his cousin to know that he was grinning expectantly.

"No, do tell."

"Oh, it was the lad's birthday, you know, and me and Bombur wanted to give him his very own pipe since it was his thirtieth. So I was out in the forest, searching for some fine wood in the bushes to make the mouth piece, and suddenly, out of the blue, I had an arrow sticking in my hat. Not that one," he added hastily and pointed to his flappy hat, which had miraculously survived the battle without damage. "'nother hat, pointy one. Hit straight in the middle, he did, and there I was, shocked, you can imagine! And the little rascals ran away, cheeky sods that they were."

"You follow them?"

"Nah. Went back into town, and not long after Fíli's suddenly before me tellin' me his little brother's broken his leg. Climbed a tree 'cause they got lost when they ran from me, served him right I said."

He chuckled, the memories of that day being still clear on his mind. He remembered the worry in Fíli's eyes and the mischievous smirk that Kíli had given him, and the birthday party afterwards stood out from all the rest.

"It was a great party," he mumbled. "Kíli loved his pipe. He wasn't too fond of the crutches I gave him, though," he added.

_He kept that pipe during the whole journey. _

He realised that the pipe had to be somewhere in Kíli's bags, bags that were now lying abandoned in the chambers of Erebor. He would never open them again. Instead someone else – probably his mother – would find the pipe, and the beautiful piece of craftsmanship would be used no more. No fire would be lit, the pipe would remain cold, and there would be no more birthday parties as he knew them.

He choked hard to fight back the lump forming in his throat. He stared rigidly ahead as he felt his eyes starting to prickle. He didn't want to cry. It was bad enough that he had let his guard down before, with everyone watching as he held on to his big brother and let his sobs be muffled by his thick coat. He was a dwarf, and dwarves were supposed to be strong, both physically and emotionally. It was the way his father had raised him, after all.

"I remember that one day when Thorin took Fíli to our shop," reminisced Bombur. "The wee lad couldn't have been more than five, it was shortly after their Da died, Mahal bless him. Kíli had just been born, a baby he was, and Thorin let Fíli choose a toy for himself and one for Kíli. He didn't expect Fíli to reach straight for the wooden swords, though!"

"I remember this," said Bifur with a small grin on his bearded face. "We laugh. Not old enough for swords."

"Aye, that's what we said. Told him it was for older dwarflings, and that he should choose among other stuff. Oh, I'll never forget the look on his face! There he was, barely reaching to my hips back then, staring me dead in the eyes – and who could ever deny that wee bairn a wish if he looked at you with those big blue eyes, eh? – and said, 'I need a sword.' And we all looked at each other, and Thorin asked, 'What do you need a sword for, Fíli?' and he just looked up at us and said, 'To protect Kee.' Just like that. Five years old he was."

Bombur mopped his eyes with his beard, and Bofur felt his own eyes stinging painfully again. He noticed that Bifur was watching him, and when he looked at him his cousin squeezed his shoulder.

"I see Thorin cry, then. First time I see. He never know."

Bofur needed a moment to fully understand what Bifur had said. It was hard to imagine Thorin, the strong, courageous leader, to cry. But as he thought about it, he suddenly had an image before his eyes of Thorin turning his face away from his friends and his nephew, blinking furiously to keep his eyes from glistening. He wondered if this was the moment when he'd decided to replace the father for his nephews.

_And what a wonderful job he's done._

He'd watched the three Durins often during their journey. He'd seen the boys trying to impress their uncle, and many times he'd noticed the small hint of pride in Thorin's eyes when he'd looked at them. He may have been harsh on them sometimes, he had scolded them more than once for their reckless, juvenile behaviour, but more than anything he had tried his best to look out for them. He would smile at their jokes while sitting around the fire, and keep watch during the night and give them his spare blanket during many a cold night.

But there would be no more little jokes at the campfire, Bofur realised. No more teasing Bilbo, no silly songs and wild stories that would make the elder ones raise their eyebrows. There would be no missing ponies, no flirting with elf maids, no drinking contests and sword fights in a crowded pub.

"Why them?" he heard himself ask. The question had been repeating itself over and over again in his head ever since Balin and Dwalin had returned from the battle field. He had yet to find an answer. "They were so full of life. It's just... it's not fair."

He was met with silence, and he knew that neither Bombur nor Bifur had an answer for him. He hadn't really expected one. He wanted to say more, because suddenly the silence frightened him, choking him so that he found it impossible to breathe. He wished he could just fill the crypt with a song again, but none of the songs he knew seemed appropriate for these halls. There was nothing then to fill the void in his heart, nothing to drown out the voices inside his head that reminded him of what he'd seen during the battle and after its ending. He clenched his fists as he felt his lower lip beginning to tremble.

He flinched when he felt Bifur's hand on his shoulder.

"Is alright, cry," he said. "Is good."

But he was sick of crying. He shook his head vehemently and took deep, shuddering breaths as he squared his shoulders.

"They were great lads," he said firmly. "Let us honour them by keeping watch over them for one last time."

"Aye."

The single word echoed in the room, and Bofur kept his gaze set on the stone wall, watching the shadows flickering and dancing before his eyes.

_They were great lads indeed._

He felt a single tear running down his cheek, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

_And I tried to sing  
But I couldn't think of anything  
And that was the hardest part_

(Coldplay, "The hardest part")

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**A/N 1: The chapter title is a song by Goo Goo Dolls.**

**A/N 2: That song is one of my favourite Coldplay songs (I don't really like their new stuff, unfortunately), although (or because?) it never fails to make me cry. **

**A/N 3: Kíli's shooting accident is told in "A not so average birthday". ;)**

**A/N 4: We will meet Dwalin again in the next chapter, so keep the tissues at the ready, everyone!**


	20. Time of our lives (Dwalin)

OH BY MAHAL! Have you seen the trailer?! Damn my fingers were literally shaking when I hit "Play" - and I was in tears only halfway through! Gahhh... "Everything I did, I did for them", ahhh! And Dwalin! God, I can't even... (Minor damper: where in Durin's name was Fili in that trailer?) Anyway, in celebration of this epic trailer I post this chapter one day earlier than planned. Enjoy.

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**20: Time of our lives **

It was quiet behind the curtain. A strange, uncomfortable silence it was, but still Dwalin couldn't find a way to fill it. He knew he ought to say something, say goodbye most of all, though he remained silent. He just sat on the stool next to the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, face in his hands, and tried in vain to bring himself to acknowledge that the still figure before him was his best friend dead and gone.

He had never been good with words. Battle tactics, war speeches, melancholic stories at the pub, yes. But it had always been Balin who knew the right words for more difficult situations. Dwalin could only guess that his brother had talked to Thorin. He himself didn't know what to say, because no words could ever be enough to fill this silence between them, an eternal silence that would never again be broken by shared jokes and drunken songs.

He looked closely at his friend, although all his senses screamed at him to get up and leave and never look back. It took all his willpower to not give in to these voices, but he was a fighter, a warrior, and he would see this through just like he'd made it through everything else life had thrown at him.

_But whatever I had to go through, I went with you by my side._

To others it might sound like an exaggeration, but Dwalin knew that it was true. Almost the same age, he and Thorin had first met when they had been toddlers – not that he could remember that, but his father had told him the story of how his darling little Dwalin had pushed an older dwarf to the ground who had dared to throw dirt at a tiny dwarfling with jet-black hair who would later be known as Thorin Oakenshield. The two had then proceeded to keep the older child down until he cried.

Dwalin's mother had come by and separated the boys, the seasoned warrior Fundin had received a good scolding from his wife for watching two fighting against one and not intervening, and Dwalin and Thorin had been best friends ever since that day.

Balin had joined them, and the three young dwarves had spent most of their childhood days together in the stone halls inside and the grassy plains outside Erebor. Of course Dwalin and Balin had known that their friend was slightly different from them, that he was a prince and would someday be the King under the Mountain, just like his grandfather. But it hadn't mattered then, not really.

Their lives, and Thorin's in particular, had changed for the first time when Frerin was born. Frerin had been born on a winter's day, when the whole land was covered in a thin layer of snow and the nights brought with them the icy chill that crept into your bones and made the older dwarves stay longer in the forges just to enjoy the warmth of the fires there. Frerin had been small, even for a dwarfling, and just like Dwalin Thorin had been old enough to understand that his baby brother might not make it through the harsh winter. He hadn't seen much of Thorin during that winter, but when spring came Frerin had been alive, and Thorin had grown up more than during the whole year before.

Dís had made the Durin family complete. In a world dominated by boyish games she had been the curly-haired princess who only had to look at her big brother in her own special way to make him drop his toy swords and start braiding her hair while humming a song of brave warriors and mighty dragons. An outsider probably wouldn't even have noticed the slight changes in Thorin, but to Dwalin is had been plain to see that it made Thorin grow up even faster. He had looked out for his sister, sometimes more than she needed, to be honest, for Dís had always been just as strong and hardy as her older brother.

_You had to grow up too fast. We all did._

When the dragon came, Dwalin's life as he'd known it was turned upside down. He could still smell the stench of burned flesh, he heard the cries and screams and saw the despair in his mother's eyes as if it had been yesterday. The warrior shuddered as the memories came back. The flight from the mountain, Dís' hand almost breaking from his iron grip as he pulled her with him, Frerin crying in Thorin's arms and not stopping until they had left Erebor behind.

It had been the first time Dwalin had experienced cruelty like that, and he'd never forgotten it to this day.

It hadn't been the last time, either.

Absent-mindedly he put his calloused right hand onto Thorin's arm. The vambraces were shiny and free from the blood that he had seen earlier. In fact, his whole armour seemed cleaner than before, and without the dirt and grime and blood it looked almost as if nothing had happened. The dwarven king might as well be sleeping. But when he looked more closely he could still see the cuts and bruises on Thorin's face, and the gashes in his clothing that told him that, in reality, too much had happened that could not be undone.

This hadn't been their first battle, though. He clenched his left fist and bit his lip as he thought back on the battle that had decided how he would spend the rest of his life. After many years of watching their fathers fight the orcs in the Blue Mountains, only Moria had been left to be rid of the accursed orcs. It hadn't even been a choice for Dwalin back then, and neither for Balin and Thorin. They had been young, not even of age, but nothing and no one would have made them stay behind. Together with an army of dwarves they had ventured towards Moria, and it was there that Dwalin had learned about the overwhelming grief that came with losing a loved one.

_We lost so many that day. _

Never in his life would he forget the sight of his father, dead and bloody on the ground, staring at him with wide, vacant eyes. He would always remember the wetness on his face stemming from his brother's tears as they embraced. The cry of anguish from his best friend when he found his little brother with an orc's axe buried in his frail body had burnt itself in his mind.

And more than anything he remembered Thorin picking up the makeshift shield as he ran against Azog, cleaving his arm right off with his sword, and then standing tall and proud with tear streaks barely visible on his dirty face, watching as the orcs retreated.

_There is one I could follow. There is one I could call king._

Balin's words from that day echoed in his ears when he gently adjusted the chainmail covering Thorin's torso. Whoever had cleaned his armour had certainly done a good job, but didn't know much about the correct way to wear the different layers of protection.

He wondered where Thorin's sword was. Beorn hadn't brought it, of course. It still had to be out there, he realised, and he could slap himself for not looking for it earlier. Then he remembered why his mind had been set on other matters, and he choked. What did a lost weapon matter, when so much more had been lost that would never be regained?

His mind wandered back to the day when, after all the grief and despair that the exiled dwarves had had to deal with, Thorin had found his smile again. A summer's day it had been, a day like many other in Ered Luin, but when Dís and Lîam had announced the birth of their son something had changed for all of them. The little, golden-haired boy had managed to achieve what many had feared to be a lost cause: Fíli had made Thorin laugh again.

And then Kíli had come into the world, a mirror image of Frerin, and from the very first moment just as stubborn and impulsive as his uncle. It had been Kíli who had made sure that they remembered how to smile, after the day of the orc ambush that left five dwarves dead, among them Lîam. Dwalin had been one of the survivors, and he had watched with sorrow in his heart as Thorin had carried Lîam back to the village.

It must have been at that time that Dwalin had decided that from then on, he would place one task above any other: to look out for the heirs of Durin. One task. Just one.

And at that one task he had failed.

He had guided the boys through their sword practice, through sparring and horse riding and learning battle tactics. He had shouted at them when they'd tried to skip Balin's lessons, only to later help them with their homework when Balin wasn't looking. He had looked after them more than once when Dís and Thorin had had official meetings to attend in other parts of the mountains, he had bought them their first pint and had teased them for their first hangover.

He had been Thorin's most trusted advisor – well, maybe second after his brother – and he had been at his side whenever things got nasty. All the time, all these years. Except for once, and they had paid the ultimate price for that.

"I'm sorry, Thorin," he heard himself whisper as he took his friend's hand in his own. "I failed you. I failed the lads. I should have been there, I should have helped you. But I didn't do anything, and for that I am so, _so_ sorry."

"You saved my brothers. That's quite something, if you ask me."

The voice came from the curtain, and Dwalin flinched as the words found their way to him. He turned his head and found Dori staring at him, with unnaturally red eyes in a pale face.

"Dori? How long have you... what did you..."

"I just stopped here, and if I had known you're here I wouldn't have come here at all. But I needed some air, and when I passed the curtain I heard your voice. And I couldn't go on and leave you here, saying something stupid like that."

The silver-bearded dwarf approached the bed cautiously, and Dwalin motioned wordlessly for him to sit down. Dori sat down opposite Dwalin, for a moment looking only at Thorin. When he looked up his eyes met Dwalin's, and he smiled sadly.

"Don't blame yourself, Dwalin. You were where you were supposed to be. On the field, protecting the inexperienced dwarves. Like my reckless little brother."

"But that wasn't my job. I should have protected Thorin and the lads. I should –"

"They were skilled warriors, Dwalin. Among the best in this battle, I daresay, and they were the best because you taught them well. You know you did. You looked out for those who needed you more, and for that I will be forever grateful. I'm sure Thorin would agree with me."

He spoke in all seriousness, moving suddenly as if he wanted to pull Dwalin into a hug, but stalling at the last moment.

Dwalin shook his head stubbornly. With the memories of finding Fíli and Kíli, of watching them running after their uncle, of seeing them preparing for battle still freshly engraved in his mind, he asked himself desperately where he had gone wrong. At some point he must have made a mistake, he just didn't know where exactly. Should he have made sure to stay at their sides all the time? Should he have run after them when they followed Thorin and Azog? Should he have searched for them sooner?

"Don't."

His head shot up at the single syllable that Dori had spoken.

"Don't – what?"

"Don't ask yourself all these questions. Truth is, you'll never know."

"I should have followed them."

"But instead you brought my brother home. Dwalin! You saved his life. He lives because of you."

There was a subliminal tremor in Dori's voice. He seemed to have aged significantly during the last hours, the worry and grief obviously taking its toll on the usually strong dwarf.

"I know you wish you'd gone after the lads. But then my brother would be dead. Maybe both of them. Would you rather that had happened?"

It was a ridiculous thought, of course, one no one should even say aloud. Dwalin shook his head vehemently, curling his hands into fists as he stared rigidly ahead onto the motionless figure on the bed.

"Of course not," he whispered.

"Don't blame yourself for the lives you couldn't save, my friend. Think of those you did save, against all odds." Dori paused shortly, then put a hand onto Thorin's shoulder and bowed his head. "I'm proud of having been part of your company, Thorin Oakenshield. Now rest in peace, my king."

With that he got up and left as quietly as he had come.

Before he knew it Dwalin was again alone with Thorin. Dori's words echoed in his head as he gazed down at his friend.

"Is he right?" he asked quietly, running one hand over his bald head. He could feel the scars underneath his fingertips, the scars of the battles he'd fought in his life. Each of them told a story, of wounds he had received, of fights he had lost and battles he had won. Dwalin had learned very early that life wasn't always about getting out unscathed. Most of the time it was about dealing with the pain, and getting out stronger than you were before.

"Do you forgive me, Thorin? Do you forgive me for not being there?"

Of course his friend didn't answer. He had to find the answer to that question for himself, he knew that. He also knew, deep down, that Thorin would not only forgive him, but tell him he did the right thing.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there. I promised to watch over the lads, and to fight by your side whenever you'd need me. Of all the promises I made, that's the one I couldn't keep."

He could feel his eyes starting to sting. Pressing the heels of his hands against his closed eyelids, he took deep breaths to get rid off the tightness around his chest.

"But you didn't keep your promise, either," he whispered hoarsely. "You promised we'd go together, didn't you? It wasn't supposed to end like this. It should have been both of us, or no one. We'd fall together, you and I."

It was a promise made after one ale too many, when they'd sung drunken songs about the fallen of Azanulbizar and gotten lost in memories of Erebor. They had joked about it, back then.

It wasn't a joke now.

"I guess life didn't turn out the way we planned it when we were young, did it? But it was a great life nonetheless, my friend. I wouldn't have missed it for the world."

His throat restricted as the memories flashed before his eyes - the good, the bad, the ones that stood out from all the rest and those that he would rather forget.

"I will always ask myself where I went wrong. How I could let you go like this. What I did to deserve life when so many good dwarves have died today. Don't blame me for these thoughts, Thorin. Not yet. Save that for when we meet again."

Dwalin paused for a moment, gazing at his friend's face, taking in the oddly peaceful expression he found there.

"Find peace now, my friend," he rasped. "You deserve that, Thorin. You did so much – for your family, for the dwarves of Erebor, and not least of all for me – and I could always see how troubled you were. Don't think you could ever fool me."

Gently he adjusted the vambraces once more.

"Find peace. Watch over the lads, and say hello to my Pa from me. Tell him I miss him." He swallowed down the lump in his throat. His eyes were burning, but this time he didn't care. "I will miss you, my friend. But this is only temporary. And you'll better have that tankard of ale waiting for me when I finally get there."

A small smile tugged at his lips as he bent down and briefly pressed his forehead against Thorin's.

"You were the best friend I could ever have asked for. For that I will always be grateful."

His face was wet when he sat upright again. He didn't attempt to wipe the tears away that had found their way down his face. Nobody would see him here. It would be one last secret he'd share with his friend, he decided.

_It's hard to walk away  
From the best of days  
But if it has to end  
I'm glad you have been my friend  
In the time of our lives_

(Tyrone Wells, "Time of our lives")

* * *

A/N 1: I changed the birth dates a little, or rather adopted PJ's version. In the books, Thorin is older than Balin and Dwalin by 17 and 26 years, respectively. Dwalin would have been a baby when Smaug attacked, and only 27 at the battle of Azanulbizar, whereas he looked much older in the movie. So in my version, Balin is the eldest and Thorin and Dwalin are about the same age, born around 2746 TA. (Smaug's attack on Erebor was in 2770, and the Battle of Azanulbizar took place in 2799.)

A/N 2: We're coming closer to the end... and in the next chapter we'll meet Ori again!


	21. Almost alright (Ori)

As promised, this chapter is about Ori.

* * *

**21: Almost alright **

Ori woke from a dreamless sleep. Whatever Óin had given him to keep the pain at bay must have been some strong medicine. He was grateful for it, because he was scared of what he would see in his dreams. He remembered little of what had happened between his leaving the tent to search for his brothers, and experiencing the excruciating pain of having his leg ripped open. He faintly recalled clinging on to Dwalin, all the while feeling his own blood run down his leg, but the things he'd witnessed on the battlefield were merely a blur. Not that this wasn't awful enough. He could hear the screaming in his head and he thought he could still smell the stench of death that had lingered above the field.

He wondered what time it was. As he glanced sideways he saw Nori sleeping in what had to be the most uncomfortable position imaginable. Leaning against Ori's bed, with his legs propped up on a turned bucket, Ori had a clear view on his brother's scalp. A bit of dried blood was visible even in the dim light, which made Ori frown. Carefully he reached out his hand to touch Nori's injury and find out if he ought to call Óin. Nori flinched and mumbled something unintelligible under his breath, before he quickly turned around.

"Ori, you're awake!" he shouted happily.

"I didn't mean to wake you up," said Ori contritely. "You're injured, Nori," he added, motioning at his brother's head.

"Ah, don't worry. Just a blow to the head, nothing life-threatening. Might actually do me some good, Dori said."

He spoke light-heartedly, which Ori deeply appreciated. Nori's humorous take on things was what he needed, because it allowed him to keep his mind from wandering to unwanted places.

"Where's Dori?" he asked suddenly, only then noticing his oldest brother's absence.

"He left earlier," replied Nori, stretching and yawning widely. "He wanted to see Balin, as far as I know. He might have stopped to check on Bofur, Bombur and Bifur."

"Are they alright?" Ori asked immediately, cursing inwardly that he hadn't bothered to ask how his friends had fared in battle. Maybe it was because he was scared of the answer.

_They are dead, Ori. Kíli, Fíli, and Thorin._

Nori's words echoed in his ears, and he knew he hadn't quite realised what they meant. His childhood friends were dead. His king was dead. It was so surreal, an almost ridiculous idea, that the young dwarves who had always been the centre of attention in Ered Luin, who had been loved by everyone, and who had never laughed at him for being so useless with a sword, but had instead always welcomed him in their games, should be gone just like that.

Lost in his thoughts he didn't hear Nori immediately.

"They are fine, Ori," said Nori, eyeing him worriedly. "A few cuts and bruises, nothing more. As are Glóin and Balin, by the way – although Balin's beard looks a little worse for wear. They will ride for Ered Luin soon. Dwalin has a cracked rib and his head must have been on the receiving end of a club, but you know him, he's a rock. What doesn't kill him makes him stronger."

He winked at Ori, but the young scribe didn't feel much like smiling back at him. Of course there was some truth in Nori's words. He faintly remembered Dwalin picking him up on the field, carrying him single-handed while wielding his axe with the other hand. But he had also seen him later, when he'd first left the dark world of blissful unconsciousness. The bald warrior had been there, and when he'd looked up he had seemed different.

He had been quiet, with his usual larger-than-life attitude hidden under a mask of pain that had nothing to do with his visible battle wounds. Of course Dwalin had already known, at that time, what Ori had still had to learn from Nori.

His eyes started to burn, and he hoped Nori wouldn't notice. If he did, he certainly didn't let it show.

"Can I get you anything?" asked his brother cautiously. "Water? Something to eat?"

Ori only nodded, fearing that his voice would betray him. He could feel the familiar lump in his throat, and somehow he knew that trying to speak would most probably not end well in that moment.

"I'll see what I can get you," said Nori and patted his shoulder. Normally Ori would have reminded him to ask first, take food later, since his brother had always been known to nick food from the kitchen, even when he'd been just a child. But he could only force himself to a lopsided smile before Nori left for the tent door.

Ori's gaze lingered on the spot where Nori had vanished, before he turned his head and tried to close his eyes. It was to no avail, though. Immediately his head was filled with noises of terror, with faint cries, screaming, terrifying grunts from orcs and desperate calls from unknown dwarves. He shook his head furiously, as if he could thus get rid of the images haunting him. He tried to focus on something else, and allowed himself to scan the tent for familiar faces. On various beds Ori saw numerous dwarves, and also some men here and there. He couldn't spot any elves, and he guessed that they were tended to by their own healers. At some beds he could see someone sitting or standing, talking to a wounded friend, and the constant noise of murmuring voices filled the air that was thick from the smell of disinfectants, blood and death.

He felt bile rising up in his stomach and wished that Nori would return quicker, hopefully with a mug of water. Even something stronger than water would be nice, he thought, anything to numb his mind a little.

All of a sudden his eyes caught a movement in the far away corner. A dwarf appeared from behind what must be a curtain, and despite the rather dark interior Ori recognised him even from the distance. His breath caught in his throat as he watched Dwalin approaching. Instinctively he propped himself up against his pillow.

Dwalin slowed down as he got nearer and stopped a few feet from the bed. There was a strange expression in his eyes, one that Ori had never seen before. If it wasn't absolutely ridiculous, he would say that the older warrior was scared.

"How are you feeling, laddie?" asked Dwalin quietly with an unusually tremulous voice. As Ori looked a little closer he could see dark shadows underneath his eyes, which in addition to his impressive beard and black tattoos should have made him look even more frightening that normal. Oddly enough, though, to Ori he seemed less intimidating. More human, somehow.

It was simple question, but Ori couldn't find an easy answer. How was he feeling, really? He was tired, his body was comfortably numb from Óin's medicine, and his throat was incredibly dry, as if he hadn't had a drink in weeks.

But more than anything he felt different, and he didn't like it one bit. Maybe this was what the older warriors had meant when they'd talked about comrades who had changed in battle. He wondered if experienced warriors felt just as empty inside as he did. Because that was the most accurate answer to Dwalin's question – there was no happiness about their victory, but somehow there wasn't sadness, either. It was probably a matter of time, he thought, until the consequences of the battle would fully sink in.

"I'm alright."

The words came out as a raspy whisper, barely loud enough to carry over the murmuring voices around him, but Dwalin must have heard it nonetheless. He could feel the older one's scrutinising look even though he kept his gaze down. He couldn't bear looking at him, for suddenly there was a voice in his head that he was unable to shut out.

_He could have saved them. _

But instead Dwalin had brought him back, had run in the opposite direction on the battlefield against his very instinct, and with a sinking feeling Ori realised that the creepy voice might be right. His chest tightened and made it almost impossible to breathe, and to his horror he felt his eyes filling up way too rapidly for him to handle. He couldn't cry, not in front of Dwalin, of all people! He clenched his fists angrily, curling his fingers round the white blanket covering is body, and stared furiously at the wall, just so that he wouldn't have to face Dwalin.

He flinched when he felt a hand on his shoulder for the briefest of moments.

"That's good to hear," Dwalin said. "I'm glad you are alright."

Ori was pretty sure that Dwalin knew that, in fact, he was far from alright. None of the company was, and the young dwarf wondered if they'd ever be truly alright again. But he had the notion that Dwalin wasn't referring to his actual answer. How he could be so sure about it he didn't know, though. There was something in the way the older dwarf spoke that was reassuring, which quieted the noise in his head if only a little.

"Thank you," he whispered, and it was all he could say before his throat restricted completely and made it impossible to speak further.

_Thank you for saving me. Thank you for not wishing you hadn't. Thank you for not blaming me for your friends' deaths._

Dwalin just nodded, for a moment remaining standing at Ori's bedside. Whatever else he wanted to say was cut short by Nori's return.

"I got water, and managed to get a bowl of porridge for you, but – oh. Hello, Dwalin."

Nori and Dwalin eyed each other, the latter obviously trying to find out where exactly Nori had gotten the porridge from. He raised his eyebrows, and indeed the former thief looked a little uneasy under the warrior's stern gaze. To Ori's utter surprise, though, Dwalin didn't say anything. He only gave Nori a warning look before he turned around.

"I'll see if I can find my brother," he said gruffly and headed for the tent door.

Gratefully Ori took the leather skin filled with water from his brother, all the time being fully aware of Nori watching him worriedly. When he'd finished drinking, he continued with the porridge, which was surprisingly good – or maybe he just appreciated the fact that he was eating anything at all. He lowered the spoon when the bowl was empty, and only then his eyes met Nori's.

"How are feeling, brother?" asked Nori tentatively.

"Tired," answered Ori truthfully. When he noticed his brother's sceptical look, he sighed quietly. "I'm not alright. None of us are. The things I've seen... all this death and pain, it's not something I can just push to the back of my head. I try so hard to think of this as our new home, but every time I do that voice inside my head keeps telling me that a home paid for with blood is no home for me."

"Do you mean to day that you don't want to stay? Do you want to go back to Ered Luin?"

"I don't know. I guess I'll have to figure that out another day."

_I just want to live somewhere safe. _

Ori could feel his eyelids dropping closed and failed to stifle a yawn.

"Get some sleep, Ori," said Nori warmly. "I'll send Dori here when I find him."

"Just wake me up when Balin and Glóin leave, will you? I want to see them off."

"Are you sure you –"

"I need to say goodbye."

It wasn't anything he could explain logically. He just knew that it was important to him to be present at his friends' departure. To his great surprise Nori didn't ask further, but instead only nodded. He smiled a little as Ori blinked several times to keep his eyes from closing.

"Sleep, brother. I'll see you later."

He said something else, but whatever it was went unnoticed by Ori as he drifted off into sleep. That time, he did dream. Not of orcs and wargs and death, but of wide halls made of stone, of pillars reaching into the sky, of a new life under the mountain. It didn't look much like Erebor, he would later remember, but then again his mind might well be playing tricks on him. Mahal only knew how Óin's medicine would addle his brain.

_My dreams are not unlike yours  
They long for the safety  
And break like a glass chandelier  
But there's laughter and oh there is love  
Just past the edge of our fears_

(Rise Against, "People live here")

* * *

**A/N 1: I always thought - well, after seeing The Hobbit - that there had to be a reason for Ori to join Balin to reclaim Moria. Why should he leave his brothers behind, leave his home? In my headcanon, he simply never felt truly at home in Erebor, just as he says it here. I really wish we knew more about the dwarves' fates after the battle!**

**A/N 2: As much as it saddens me to say this - tomorrow I will post the last chapter (plus a short epilogue) of this story. It will be from Bofur's point of view and I really hope I found a good way to end this.**

**A/N 3: Can I just say how freaking much I love Rise Against? If you're into rock music and don't know them yet, check them out!**


	22. Tomorrow came (Bofur)

We have come to the end at last. It's been a wonderful journey, and I can't thank you enough for your wonderful reviews and conversations. IssyDoodle, Maigleggal, Booksnake, obi-wan's girl forever, tolkieknight, Celebrisilweth, sorrelkaren, yshxf... - you're amazing!

Today is a special day. I couldn't have thought of a more appropriate date to end this fic. For one, it's Remembrance Sunday.

_In Flanders fields the poppies blow_  
_Between the crosses, row on row,_  
_That mark our place; and in the sky_  
_The larks, still bravely singing, fly_  
_Scarce heard amid the guns below._

_We are the dead. Short days ago_  
_We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,_  
_Loved, and were loved, and now we lie_  
_In Flanders fields._

_Take up our quarrel with the foe:_  
_To you from failing hands we throw_  
_The torch; be yours to hold it high._  
_If ye break faith with us who die_  
_We shall not sleep, though poppies grow_  
_In Flanders fields._

(John Alexander McCrae, 1872 – 1918)

* * *

**22: Tomorrow came**

It was still dark when Bofur found himself standing at the gates of the mountain. He was tired, despite the few hours of sleep he had had during the night. He hadn't slept well, if he was honest, and judging from the looks on his friends' faces he guessed they hadn't slept quite peacefully, either. He might as well have stayed awake and continued keeping watch, he thought. But Bombur had persuaded him to leave the crypt when the sun started to set, leaving the task to some dwarves of Dáin's army. Of course his brother had been right in forcing him to get some sleep, but still Bofur had felt uncomfortable leaving the cool stone halls behind.

He knew that Thorin had been moved there sometime during the early hours of the night, and whenever he thought of that he was for a moment quite glad that Bombur had taken him away. Seeing Fíli and Kíli dead was horrific enough, but he didn't dare think about how seeing Thorin would affect him.

Of course he would have to face him, too, eventually. The funeral had been delayed until the congregation would return from Ered Luin. That said congregation was now ready to leave, and Bofur watched them as they mounted their ponies and horses. There were a few dwarves he didn't recognise, apparently from the Iron Hills. Excellent warriors they were, and they would be of good use should the small group get into trouble on the way. It was not to be expected, Balin had assured his friends, since orcs and wargs alike should be far away by now and shouldn't be a threat. Bofur could only hope that he was right in being so optimistic.

Glóin was already sitting on his sturdy white pony, but Balin was still standing next to his. He was talking quietly to Dwalin, whose head was now wrapped in a white bandage, and Bofur could see the older dwarf taking his brother's hands in his own for a moment. It was only a small gesture between the two brothers, but it told Bofur a lot about how their relationship had changed during the last days.

Dori and Nori stood a little to the side, with Ori between them. The young scribe was leaning heavily on a pair of wooden crutches, watching the small group with their horses, and seemed to try his hardest to ignore the way his older brothers took it in turns to fuss over him.

Three elves would accompany the group until they would reach the outer borders of Mirkwood. One of them was the young, blond elf who had taken the company as prisoners. He was riding a beautiful, chestnut stallion, which just now whinnied impatiently and stomped its hoof onto the ground. The elf patted the horse's neck and smiled fondly at his four-legged companion's behaviour, murmuring something in Elvish. Immediately the horse relaxed, perching its ears as Gandalf approached the small group.

He nodded at everyone and nobody in particular before he came to a halt before Balin and Dwalin. He bowed slightly and laid a hand onto Dwalin's shoulder for a moment, which the warrior acknowledged with a brief nod on his own. Apparently no words were needed, and Dwalin then pulled his brother close and whispered something in his ear. Then he stepped aside to allow Gandalf to speak to the group.

"It is honourable of you to go on this journey, and be assured that I will do my best to make it as easy as possible for you, even though I cannot join you. I have sent word to Radagast, and he will not only secure the woods, but also offer shelter for the night. Ride quickly, and know that we will wait for your return. Good luck!"

With that spoken he took the reins of Balin's pony and helped the older dwarf into the saddle. Before the group could depart, though, the young elf let his horse step forward.

"Gandalf! Please, tell my father that I didn't mean to disrespect him. Maybe you can talk some sense into him. I know he thinks that a mere messenger ride is not an appropriate thing to do for a prince, but I feel it is my duty to inform those in the Woodland Realm of the fate of their kin. And when I return, he can find me in Dale, not in a tent discussing politics."

There was a stubborn undertone in his voice that made Bofur grin under his beard.

"Certainly, Legolas. Although I strongly doubt that I can be the one to, as you so nicely phrased it, 'talk some sense' into King Thranduil," Gandalf replied kindly, yet with barely hidden amusement in his voice.

"Alright now, enough with the talking!" called Glóin from the right side, and Gandalf nodded.

"You're right. Ride now and seize what little sunlight you get."

Indeed, the sun was beginning to rise in the East. There was a faint red glow on the horizon which seemed to increase by the second.

The small group waved at those that stayed behind, and then let their horses fall into a slow canter as they rode off westward. Bofur gasped when Gandalf suddenly raised his staff, and a strange silvery light seemed to radiate off it and caught up with the group of riders. For a moment they were hidden inside the silver vapour, and when the mist evaporated the horses seemed much faster than before. Bofur wasn't the only one staring wide-eyed at the wizard, but the grey-bearded man just smiled. He looked rather smug, Bofur thought and laughed quietly to himself.

Only when he felt Bifur squeezing his arm he realised that it was the first time he'd laughed since the beginning of the battle.

_Maybe we will all learn to laugh again._

Gandalf turned to walk towards the mountain again, and some of the Iron Hills dwarves followed him. Dori tried to make Ori return to the healers' tent, too, but the young dwarf protested.

"I've been in there so long, I need to stay outside a bit longer. Please."

"You're only just getting better, and you need rest," replied Dori impatiently, looking as if he was ready to tear his beard in frustration.

"In all fairness, he can very well rest here if he likes," said Nori. Ori nodded vehemently in agreement.

"Hmpf. Alright," Dori finally said rather gruffly. "But you tell me if your leg starts hurting again, is that understood?"

It wasn't until Ori had solemnly sworn that he would tell his brother immediately if his leg so much as itched that Dori seemed to calm down. Crossing his arms before his large chest, he scanned the area before them. None of them spoke for a moment. An eerie silence hung above the field before them, only once filled with the shriek of a bird, that mingled with the stench of death that still lingered in the air. Here and there huge piles could be seen from which smoke was still rising, and Bofur knew that these were the corpses of the orcs and wargs. The fallen of the allied forces had been brought inside the mountain. Within the next days funeral celebrations would be held in Lake-town for those who had died both in the battle and during Smaug's destruction of the town. Those who had survived were already busy rebuilding the town, just like many dwarves were working on clearing the passageways and chambers inside the mountain. Erebor was far from habitable after Smaug had lived there for such a long time, but Bofur didn't doubt the skills of his kin. Soon the mountain would be as glorious as it had been in the past, and later generations would never know what it had looked like on that one Durin's Day in the year 2941 of the Third Age. They would see the land covered in green grass, not muddy and desolate and reeking of death.

_They will not know it as the ruin it is now. They'll know it as their home._

It was a comforting thought.

The sun was rising, and the first rays of light found their way above the edge of the world. Tiny snowflakes danced in the air, and suddenly a cold, yet pleasantly fresh wind made the hairs on Bofur's neck stand up. He pulled his hat low, so that it covered almost his entire forehead, and buried his hands in the pockets of his coat.

"Look!" Bifur whispered. "Look."

He pointed at something which Bofur couldn't see at first as he squinted against the sun. He shielded his eyes with his hand, and then he spotted what Bifur had meant to show him.

In the middle of the dark, wide field, only a few yards away and barely visible against the black ground, stood a flower. The petals looked thin and were of a red colour, and Bofur was sure that he had never seen a plant like this before. It looked frail as it was shaken by the wind, but though it swayed back and forth it didn't break.

Bofur stared at this one colourful spot amidst the black plain in wonder, and by the silence around him he knew that his friends had seen it, too. Nobody spoke as the sun continued its course. It was only when it had risen completely that they silently turned around and went back towards the mountain.

The toymaker remembered the moment during the battle when he'd thought the sun would never rise again after so much evil had happened during its absence. But against all odds, the world had kept on turning. Life went on, despite everything.

As they came closer to the gate, Bofur began to hum to himself. It wasn't a great melody, and certainly not a song, but it was a start.

And for now, that had to be enough.

_Despite the overwhelming odds, tomorrow came._

(Rise Against, "Tragedy & Time")


	23. Epilogue

Today, 9th November 2014, is not only Remembrance Sunday. It also marks the 25th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin wall. I was only 3 years old back then and of course I don't remember anything of that time. But when I see the pictures these days and hear the stories of those who were there, I get shivers down my spine. A lot of crap has happened on behalf of my country, but the reunion of East and West Germany, and the fact that it was achieved through peaceful revolutions of everyday people who only wanted freedom, rather than through violence and use of weapons, makes me just a tiny bit proud of my country. That historical background was the inspiration for this epilogue and Dáin's speech.

Thank you for following me until the end.

* * *

**23: Epilogue**

"Arise now, Dáin Ironfoot the Second, King under the Mountain, King of Durin's folk!"

Gandalf's voice echoed in the great hall inside the mountain. Before him kneeled Dáin, the beautiful crown on his grey-haired head, and as Gandalf's words faded away the dwarf rose to his feet. Balin watched him for a moment. Gone was the armour that the warrior had worn during the battle, and in its stead were fine robes embroidered with his own royal crest. The magnificent jewels on the crown seemed to emit a soft light, which in combination with the torches on the wall allowed no darkness to enter the hall. Dáin wore a serious expression on his weather-beaten face, as Balin noticed before he, in unison with everyone else in the crowd, bowed before his new king.

When he straightened his back again Dáin was still standing in the same spot and let his stern gaze wander across the heads of all those assembled for the crowning ceremony.

Most of the audience were dwarves, of course. To Balin's right was Dwalin, his face stoic as ever, the only evidence of emotions being his clenched jaw and the dark shadow in his eyes. To his left Dís was standing rigidly, showing no signs of grief or pain, which was typical for those of the line of Durin, as Balin knew very well. The sister of Thorin Oakenshield, mother of Fíli and Kíli, was no exception.

The old dwarf chanced a glance down the lines to his left and right. The rest of the company stood together of course. Ori was still leaning on his crutches, flanked by his brothers; Bofur had taken off his hat and was pressing it to his chest, staring straight ahead; Glóin was now accompanied by his wife and his young son. A couple of dwarves from the Iron Hills were in the first row as well, distant cousins of Dáin and Thorin whom Balin only vaguely remembered.

Balin didn't turn around during the ceremony, but he knew that men and elves were standing in the back of the hall. Only few of them were privileged to be at the front. Among them were King Thranduil and his son Legolas as well as Lord Elrond from Rivendell and Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel from Lothlórien. Bard the Bowman, the hero of Esgaroth, was there with his children, who seemed to be genuinely impressed by the ceremony.

"Thank you, Gandalf, and thank you, my friends," spoke Dáin with his deep, rumbling voice. "I swear, by the Seven Fathers and our creator, the mighty Mahal, that I will always honour your faith and do everything in my power to keep my people safe and provide them with shelter and protection under the mountain, until Mahal himself come claim me."

He paused for a moment, and when he continued to speak his voice was determined and his face hard.

"Many good people died in the battle that also claimed the life of my cousin, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thror, whose legacy I will carry on in his stead. Many good people died defending what's good and right in this world. Many paid for their loyalty, in one way or the other," he said, and Balin knew that he was looking at the wounded who hadn't let their injuries keep them from attending the coronation.

There were many, he realised with a sinking heart. And compared to the fate of some warriors, Ori's leg injury was relatively harmless. At least he would walk again.

"The battle before these gates proved once again that, in order to keep our lands safe, we need to form alliances. If we want to keep evil at bay, we must work together – dwarves, men, and elves. No matter what has happened in the past. There are some things that will never be forgotten, but let us not allow the past to hinder us from forming a future together. We may be different, but there is one thing we all have in common: we want to live in a free world, free from evil, free from fear. We can only achieve this if we stand united."

It was an impressive sight, Balin thought, to see the dwarven king and hearing his speech at the same time. He could see several dwarves nodding at his words, and he had to admit that Dáin truly spoke like a leader before the crowd.

"Never again shall we be driven against each other. Never again shall we allow others to divide us, never again shall we let greed and false pride turn friends into foes. We can build a future together, and we will start by working together when rebuilding Lake-town and Erebor."

A few cheers erupted from the crowd, and Dáin smiled a little.

"We will never forget the past days. We will always remember those who gave their lives for our freedom. We will always remember that we are only as strong as we are united. We will remember this when the time comes to defend our freedom once more."

There was silence in the hall when Dáin finished. There were no cheers now, not even a whisper or the shuffling of feet. In a kind of mutual, silent agreement everyone, one by one, bowed their heads. Balin didn't know how much time passed. Dáin's words echoed in his ears, and they mingled with the memories of everything that had come to pass during the last year.

He suddenly knew that Dáin would be a worthy king. It wasn't a rational thought, but more like a feeling that told him he could have faith in him.

_There is one I could follow. There is one I could call king._

He had followed Thorin until the end, and he would have stayed at his side in Erebor for the rest of his life. Now he would have to face the rest of that life without his friend, and part of him was scared of it. But he wouldn't be alone.

Thorin had brought them home, and for that Balin would always be grateful. What mattered more than anything, though, were the new bonds of friendship that had come out of this quest. He had made new friends, and he had become closer to his brother than ever before. And more than gold and jewels, this was the true treasure he had gained in this adventure – an adventure that had started in the comfortable hobbit hole of Bilbo Baggins, a simple hobbit from the Shire.

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_"I've found it is the small things; everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keeps the darkness at bay... simple acts of kindness, and love."_  
- The Hobbit (An unexpected journey)


End file.
